AND  OTHER  STORIES 


by  W.  Somerset  Maugham 


ia 


ou>  foo\  1  io  «tV  coHvpoatoR*  &.  a  crowSI 
Lrfs  -tfw  room_cuv6  Aere  upott  tibw  kn*u, 
'  'ulv«,KuiTAt«tKaA-*»Goi 
/Htrvo*  Itlu  -ttattl"  Jrll 


THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 
W.      SOMERSET      MAUGHAM 


NOTICE 

ALL  of  the  tales  in  this  collection  are 
laid  against  the  languorous  semi-barbaric 
background  of  the  South  Sea  Islands. 
The  story  of  RAIN,  now  being  produced 
as  a  United  Artists  Picture  starring 
Joan  Crawford  as  the  unforgettable  Sadie 
Thompson,  will  be  found  among  them. 
It  is  the  story  on  which  is  based  the  play 
whose  popularity  and  amazing  run  made 
theatrical  history.  In  all  of  these  stories 
will  be  found  that  same  spark  of  drama 
that  distinguishes  RAIN  from  the  ordinary 
run  of  short  stories — tales  of  romantic  fig- 
ures whose  lives  reflect  the  pity  and  terror 
and  irony  of  the  inscrutable  Pacific. 


RAIN See  page  241 


RAIN 

And  Other  Stories 

Published  Under  the  Title  of 

THE   TBEMBLING    OP    A    LEAP 

By 
IV.  Somerset  Maugham 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORHQ 
LOS  ANGELES 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BT   GEOEGE  H.  DOBAN   COMPANY 


THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 
VTVTVTED  IX  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

BERTRAM  ALANSON 


20879G 1 


U extreme  fflicitt  a  peine  sGparfo  par 
une  feuille  tremblante  de  l'extr§me 
dssespoir,  n'est-ce  pas  la  vie? 

SAINTE-BEUVE. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

I    THE  PACIFIC 13 

II    MACKINTOSH 15 

III  THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD      ...  66 

IV  RED 115 

V    THE  POOL 148 

VI     HONOLULU *  205 

VII    RAIN 241 

VIII     ENVOI 302 


THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 


THE    TREMBLING 
OF    A    LEAF 


The  Pacific 

Pacific  is  inconstant  and  uncertain  like 
_  the  soul  of  man.  Sometimes  it  is  grey  like 
the  English  Channel  off  Beachy  Head,  with  a  heavy 
swell,  and  sometimes  it  is  rough,  capped  with  white 
crests,  and  boisterous.  It  is  not  so  often  that  it  is 
calm  and  blue.  Then,  indeed,  the  blue  is  arrogant. 
The  sun  shines  fiercely  from  an  unclouded  sky.  The 
trade  wind  gets  into  your  blood  and  you  are  filled 
with  an  impatience  for  the  unknown.  The  billows, 
magnificently  rolling,  stretch  widely  on  all  sides 
of  you,  and  you  forget  your  vanished  youth,  with 
its  memories,  cruel  and  sweet,  in  a  restless,  intol- 
erable desire  for  life.  On  such  a  sea  as  this  Ulysses 
sailed  when  he  sought  the  Happy  Isles.  But  there 
are  days  also  when  the  Pacific  is  like  a  lake.  The 
sea  is  flat  and  shining.  The  flying  fish,  a  gleam  of 
shadow  on  the  brightness  of  a  mirror,  make  little 
fountains  of  sparkling  drops  when  they  dip.  There 
are  fleecy  clouds  on  the  horizon,  and  at  sunset  they 
take  strange  shapes  so  that  it  is  impossible  not  to 

16 


14  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

believe  that  you  see  a  range  of  lofty  mountains,. 
They  are  the  mountains  of  the  country  of  your 
dreams.  You  sail  through  an  unimaginable  si- 
lence upon  a  magic  sea.  Now  and  then  a  few  gulls 
suggest  that  land  is  not  far  off,  a  forgotten  island 
hidden  in  a  wilderness  of  waters;  but  the  gulls,  the 
melancholy  gulls,  are  the  only  sign  you  have  of  it. 
You  see  never  a  tramp,  with  its  friendly  smoke,  no 
stately  bark  or  trim  schooner,  not  a  fishing  boat 
even :  it  is  an  empty  desert ;  and  presently  the  empti- 
ness fills  you  with  a  vague  foreboding. 


n 

Mackintosh 

HE  splashed  about  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  sea ; 
it  was  too  shallow  to  swim  in  and  for  fear  of 
sharks  he  could  not  go  out  of  his  depth;  then  he 
got  out  and  went  into  the  bath-house  for  a  shower. 
The  coldness  of  the  fresh  water  was  grateful  after 
the  heavy  stickiness  of  the  salt  Pacific,  so  warm, 
though  it  was  only  just  after  seven,  that  to  bathe  in 
it  did  not  brace  you  but  rather  increased  your  lan- 
guor; and  when  he  had  dried  himself,  slipping  into  a 
bath-gown,  he  called  out  to  the  Chinese  cook  that  he 
would  be  ready  for  breakfast  in  five  minutes.  He 
walked  barefoot  across  the  patch  of  coarse  grass 
which  Walker,  the  administrator,  proudly  thought 
was  a  lawn,  to  his  own  quarters  and  dressed.  This 
did  not  take  long,  for  he  put  on  nothing  but  a  shirt 
and  a  pair  of  duck  trousers  and  then  went  over  to  his 
chief's  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  compound. 
The  two  men  had  their  meals  together,  but  the 
Chinese  cook  told  him  that  Walker  had  set  out  on 
horseback  at  five  and  would  not  be  back  for  another 
hour. 

Mackintosh  had  slept  badly  and  he  looked  with 
distaste  at  the  paw-paw  and  the  eggs  and  bacon 
which  were  set  before  him.  The  mosquitoes  had 

15 


16  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

been  maddening  that  night;  they  flew  about  the  net 
under  which  he  slept  in  such  numbers  that  their 
humming,  pitiless  and  menacing,  had  the  effect  of  a 
note,  infinitely  drawn  out,  played  on  a  distant  or- 
gan, and  whenever  he  dozed  off  he  awoke  with  a 
start  in  the  belief  that  one  had  found  its  way  inside 
his  curtains.  It  was  so  hot  that  he  lay  naked.  He 
turned  from  side  to  side.  And  gradually  the  dull 
roar  of  the  breakers  on  the  reef,  so  unceasing  and 
so  regular  that  generally  you  did  not  hear  it,  grew 
distinct  on  his  consciousness,  its  rhythm  hammered 
on  his  tired  nerves  and  he  held  himself  with  clenched 
hands  in  the  effort  to  bear  it.  The  thought  that 
nothing  could  stop  that  sound,  for  it  would  con- 
tinue to  all  eternity,  was  almost  impossible  to  bear, 
and,  as  though  his  strength  were  a  match  for  the 
ruthless  forces  of  nature,  he  had  an  insane  impulse 
to  do  some  violent  thing.  He  felt  he  must  cling  to 
his  self-control  or  he  would  go  mad.  And  now, 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  lagoon  and  the 
strip  of  foam  which  marked  the  reef,  he  shuddered 
with  hatred  of  the  brilliant  scene.  The  cloudless 
sky  was  like  an  inverted  bowl  that  hemmed  it  in. 
He  lit  his  pipe  and  turned  over  the  pile  of  Auck- 
land papers  that  had  come  over  from  Apia  a  few 
days  before.  The  newest  of  them  was  three  weeks 
old.  They  gave  an  impression  of  incredible  dull- 
ness. 

Then  he  went  into  the  office.  It  was  a  large, 
bare  room  with  two  desks  in  it  and  a  bench  along 
one  side.  A  number  of  natives  were  seated  on 
this,  and  a  couple  of  women.  They  gossiped  while 


MACKINTOSH  17 

they  waited  for  the  administrator,  and  when  Mack- 
intosh came  in  they  greeted  him. 

"Talofa  li." 

He  returned  their  greeting  and  sat  down  at  his 
desk.  He  began  to  write,  working  on  a  report 
which  the  governor  of  Samoa  had  been  clamouring 
for  and  which  Walker,  with  his  usual  dilatoriness, 
had  neglected  to  prepare.  Mackintosh  as  he  made 
his  notes  reflected  vindictively  that  Walker  was  late 
with  his  report  because  he  was  so  illiterate  that  he 
had  an  invincible  distaste  for  anything  to  do  with 
pens  and  paper ;  and  now  when  it  was  at  last  ready, 
concise  and  neatly  official,  he  would  accept  his  subor- 
dinate's work  without  a  word  of  appreciation,  with 
a  sneer  rather  or  a  gibe,  and  send  it  on  to  his  own 
superior  as  though  it  were  his  own  composition. 
He  could  not  have  written  a  word  of  it.  Mack- 
intosh thought  with  rage  that  if  his  chief  pencilled 
in  some  insertion  it  would  be  childish  in  expression 
and  faulty  in  language.  If  he  remonstrated  or 
sought  to  put  his  meaning  into  an  intelligible  phrase, 
Walker  would  fly  into  a  passion  and  cry: 

"What  the  hell  do  I  care  about  grammar? 
That's  what  I  want  to  say  and  that's  how  I  want 
to  say  it." 

At  last  Walker  came  in.  The  natives  surrounded 
him  as  he  entered,  trying  to  get  his  immediate  at- 
tention, but  he  turned  on  them  roughly  and  told 
them  to  sit  down  and  hold  their  tongues.  He 
threatened  that  if  they  were  not  quiet  he  would 
have  them  all  turned  out  and  see  none  of  them 
that  day.  He  nodded  to  Mackintosh. 


18  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Hulloa,  Mac;  up  at  last?  I  don't  know  how 
you  can  waste  the  best  part  of  the  day  in  bed.  You 
ought  to  have  been  up  before  dawn  like  me.  Lazy 
beggar." 

He  threw  himself  heavily  into  his  chair  and 
wiped  his  face  with  a  large  bandana. 

"By  heaven,  I've  got  a  thirst." 

He  turned  to  the  policeman  who  stood  at  the 
door,  a  picturesque  figure  in  his  white  jacket  and 
lava-lava,  the  loin  cloth  of  the  Samoan,  and  told 
him  to  bring  kava.  The  kava  bowl  stood  on  the 
floor  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  the  policeman 
filled  a  half  coconut  shell  and  brought  it  to  Walker. 
He  poured  a  few  drops  on  the  ground,  murmured 
the  customary  words  to  the  company,  and  drank 
with  relish.  Then  he  told  the  policeman  to  serve 
the  waiting  natives,  and  the  shell  was  handed  to 
each  one  in  order  of  birth  or  importance  and  emp- 
tied with  the  same  ceremonies. 

Then  he  set  about  the  day's  work.  He  was  a  lit- 
tle man,  considerably  less  than  of  middle  height, 
and  enormously  stout;  he  had  a  large,  fleshy  face, 
clean-shaven,  with  the  cheeks  hanging  on  each  side 
in  great  dew-laps,  and  three  vast  chins;  his  small 
features  were  all  dissolved  in  fat;  and,  but  for  a 
crescent  of  white  hair  at  the  back  of  his  head,  he 
was  completely  bald.  He  reminded  you  of  Mr 
Pickwick.  He  was  grotesque,  a  figure  of  fun,  and 
yet,  strangely  enough,  not  without  dignity.  His 
blue  eyes,  behind  large  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  were 
shrewd  and  vivacious,  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  determination  in  his  face.  He  was  sixty,  but 


MACKINTOSH  19 

his  native  vitality  triumphed  over  advancing  years. 
Notwithstanding  his  corpulence  his  movements 
were  quick,  and  he  walked  with  a  heavy,  resolute 
tread  as  though  he  sought  to  impress  his  weight 
upon  the  earth.  He  spoke  in  a  loud,  gruff  voice. 

It  was  two  years  now  since  Mackintosh  had  been 
appointed  Walker's  assistant.  Walker,  who  had 
been  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  administrator  of 
Talua,  one  of  the  larger  islands  in  the  Samoan 
group,  was  a  man  known  in  person  or  by  report 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  South  Seas; 
and  it  was  with  lively  curiosity  that  Mackintosh 
looked  forward  to  his  first  meeting  with  him.  For 
one  reason  or  another  he  stayed  a  couple  of  weeks 
at  Apia  before  he  took  up  his  post  and  both  at 
Chaplin's  hotel  and  at  the  English  club  he  heard 
innumerable  stories  about  the  administrator.  He 
thought  now  with  irony  of  his  interest  in  them. 
Since  then  he  had  heard  them  a  hundred  times 
from  Walker  himself.  Walker  knew  that  he  was  a 
character,  and,  proud  of  his  reputation,  deliberately 
acted  up  to  it.  He  was  jealous  of  his  "legend" 
and  anxious  that  you  should  know  the  exact  details 
of  any  of  the  celebrated  stories  that  were  told  of 
him.  He  was  ludicrously  angry  with  anyone  who 
had  told  them  to  the  stranger  incorrectly. 

There  was  a  rough  cordiality  about  Walker  which 
Mackintosh  at  first  found  not  unattractive,  and 
Walker,  glad  to  have  a  listener  to  whom  all  he 
said  was  fresh,  gave  of  his  best.  He  was  good- 
humoured,  hearty,  and  considerate.  To  Mackin- 
tosh, who  had  lived  the  sheltered  life  of  a  govern- 


20  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

mcnt  official  in  London  till  at  the  age  of  thirty-four 
an  attack  of  pneumonia,  leaving  him  with  the  threat 
of  tuberculosis,  had  forced  him  to  seek  a  post  in 
the  Pacific,  Walker's  existence  seemed  extraordi- 
narily romantic.  The  adventure  with  which  he 
started  on  his  conquest  of  circumstance  was  typical 
of  the  man.  He  ran  away  to  sea  when  he  was  fif- 
teen and  for  over  a  year  was  employed  in  shovel- 
ling coal  on  a  collier.  He  was  an  undersized  boy 
and  both  men  and  mates  were  kind  to  him,  but  the 
captain  for  some  reason  conceived  a  savage  dislike 
of  him.  He  used  the  lad  cruelly  so  that,  beaten 
and  kicked,  he  often  could  not  sleep  for  the  pain 
that  racked  his  limbs.  He  loathed  the  captain  with 
all  his  soul.  Then  he  was  given  a  tip  for  some 
race  and  managed  to  borrow  twenty-five  pounds 
from  a  friend  he  had  picked  up  in  Belfast.  He  put 
it  on  the  horse,  an  outsider,  at  long  odds.  He  had 
no  means  of  repaying  the  money  if  he  lost,  but 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  lose.  He 
felt  himself  in  luck.  The  horse  won  and  he  found 
himself  with  something  over  a  thousand  pounds  in 
hard  cash.  Now  his  chance  had  come.  He  found 
out  who  was  the  best  solicitor  in  the  town — the  col- 
lier lay  then  somewhere  on  the  Irish  coast — went 
to  him,  and,  telling  him  that  he  heard  the  ship  was 
for  sale,  asked  him  to  arrange  the  purchase  for 
him.  The  solicitor  was  amused  at  his  small  client, 
he  was  only  sixteen  and  did  not  look  so  old,  and, 
moved  perhaps  by  sympathy,  promised  not  only  to 
arrange  the  matter  for  him  but  to  see  that  he  made 
a  good  bargain.  After  a  little  while  Walker  found 


MACKINTOSH  SI 

himself  the  owner  of  the  ship.  He  went  back  to 
her  and  had  what  he  described  as  the  most  glori- 
ous moment  of  his  life  when  he  gave  the  skipper 
notice  and  told  him  that  he  must  get  off  his  ship  in 
half  an  hour.  He  made  the  mate  captain  and  sailed 
on  the  collier  for  another  nine  months,  at  the  end 
of  which  he  sold  her  at  a  profit. 

He  came  out  to  the  islands  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
six  as  a  planter.  He  was  one  of  the  few  white  men 
settled  in  Talua  at  the  time  of  the  German  occu- 
pation and  had  then  already  some  influence  with 
the  natives.  The  Germans  made  him  administra- 
tor, a  position  which  he  occupied  for  twenty  years, 
and  when  the  island  was  seized  by  the  British  he 
was  confirmed  in  his  post.  He  ruled  the  island 
despotically,  but  with  complete  success.  The  pres- 
tige of  this  success  was  another  reason  for  the  in- 
terest that  Mackintosh  took  in  him. 

But  the  two  men  were  not  made  to  get  on.  Mack- 
intosh was  an  ugly  man,  with  ungainly  gestures,  a 
tall  thin  fellow,  with  a  narrow  chest  and  bowed 
shoulders.  He  had  sallow,  sunken  cheeks,  and  his 
eyes  were  large  and  sombre.  He  was  a  great 
reader,  and  when  his  books  arrived  and  were  un- 
packed Walker  came  over  to  his  quarters  and  looked 
at  them.  Then  he  turned  to  Mackintosh  with  a 
coarse  laugh. 

"What  in  Hell  have  you  brought  all  this  muck 
for?"  he  asked. 

Mackintosh  flushed  darkly. 

"I'm  sorry  you  think  it  muck.  I  brought  my 
books  because  I  want  to  read  them." 


S2  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"When  you  said  you'd  got  a  lot  of  books  coming 
I  thought  there'd  be  something  for  me  to  read. 
Haven't  you  got  any  detective  stories?" 
"Detective  stories  don't  interest  me." 
"You're  a  damned  fool  then." 
"I'm  content  that  you  should  think  so." 
Every  mail  brought  Walker  a  mass  of  periodical 
literature,  papers  from  New  Zealand  and  magazines 
from  America,  and  it  exasperated  him  that  Mackin- 
tosh showed  his  contempt  for  these  ephemeral  pub- 
lications. He  had  no  patience  with  the  books  that 
absorbed  Mackintosh's  leisure  and  thought  it  only  a 
pose  that  he  read  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  or 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy.  And  since  he 
had  never  learned  to  put  any  restraint  on  his  tongue, 
he  expressed  his  opinion  of  his  assistant  freely. 
Mackintosh  began  to  see  the  real  man,  and  under 
the  boisterous  good-humour  he  discerned  a  vulgar 
cunning  which  was  hateful;  he  was  vain  and  domi- 
neering, and  it  was  strange  that  he  had  notwith- 
standing a  shyness  which  made  him  dislike  people 
who  were  not  quite  of  his  kidney.  He  judged 
others,  naively,  by  their  language,  and  if  it  was 
free  from  the  oaths  and  the  obscenity  which  made 
up  the  greater  part  of  his  own  conversation,  he 
looked  upon  them  with  suspicion.  In  the  evening 
the  two  men  played  piquet.  He  played  badly  but 
vain  gloriously,  crowing  over  his  opponent  when  he 
won  and  losing  his  temper  when  he  lost.  On  rare 
occasions  a  couple  of  planters  or  traders  would  drive 
over  to  play  bridge,  and  then  Walker  showed  him- 
self in  what  Mackintosh  considered  a  characteristic 


MACKINTOSH  23 

light.  He  played  regardless  of  his  partner,  call- 
ing up  in  his  desire  to  play  the  hand,  and  argued  in- 
terminably, beating  down  opposition  by  the  loud- 
ness  of  his  voice.  He  constantly  revoked,  and  when 
he  did  so  said  with  an  ingratiating  whine:  "Oh, 
you  wouldn't  count  it  against  an  old  man  who  can 
hardly  see."  Did  he  know  that  his  opponents 
thought  it  as  well  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  him 
and  hesitated  to  insist  on  the  rigour  of  the  game? 
Mackintosh  watched  him  with  an  icy  contempt. 
When  the  game  was  over,  while  they  smoked  their 
pipes  and  drank  whisky,  they  would  begin  telling 
stories.  Walker  told  with  gusto  the  story  of  his 
marriage.  He  had  got  so  drunk  at  the  wedding 
feast  that  the  bride  had  fled  and  he  had  never  seen 
her  since.  He  had  had  numberless  adventures, 
commonplace  and  sordid,  with  the  women  of  the 
island  and  he  described  them  with  a  pride  in  his 
own  prowess  which  was  an  offence  to  Mackintosh's 
fastidious  ears.  He  was  a  gross,  sensual  old  man. 
He  thought  Mackintosh  a  poor  fellow  because  he 
would  not  share  his  promiscuous  amours  and  re- 
mained sober  when  the  company  was  drunk. 

He  despised  him  also  for  the  orderliness  with 
which  he  did  his  official  work.  Mackintosh  liked 
to  do  everything  just  so.  His  desk  was  always  tidy, 
his  papers  were  always  neatly  docketed,  he  could 
put  his  hand  on  any  document  that  was  needed,  and 
he  had  at  his  fingers'  ends  all  the  regulations  that 
were  required  for  the  business  of  their  administra- 
tion. 

"Fudge,   fudge,"   said  Walker.     "I've  run  this 


24  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

island  for  twenty  years  without  red  tape,  and  I 
don't  want  it  now." 

"Does  it  make  it  any  easier  for  you  that  when 
you  want  a  letter  you  have  to  hunt  half  an  hour 
for  it?"  answered  Mackintosh. 

"You're  nothing  but  a  damned  official.  But 
you're  not  a  bad  fellow;  when  you've  been  out  here 
a  year  or  two  you'll  be  all  right.  What's  wrong 
about  you  is  that  you  won't  drink.  You  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  sort  if  you  got  soused  once  a  week." 

The  curious  thing  was  that  Walker  remained  per- 
fectly unconscious  of  the  dislike  for  him  which  every 
month  increased  in  the  breast  of  his  subordinate. 
Although  he  laughed  at  him,  as  he  grew  accus- 
tomed to  him,  he  began  almost  to  like  him.  He 
had  a  certain  tolerance  for  the  peculiarities  of 
others,  and  he  accepted  Mackintosh  as  a  queer  fish. 
Perhaps  he  liked  him,  unconsciously,  because  he 
could  chaff  him.  His  humour  consisted  of  coarse 
banter  and  he  wanted  a  butt.  Mackintosh's  exact- 
ness, his  morality,  his  sobriety,  were  all  fruitful 
subjects;  his  Scot's  name  gave  an  opportunity  for  the 
usual  jokes  about  Scotland;  he  enjoyed  himself  thor- 
oughly when  two  or  three  men  were  there  and  he 
could  make  them  all  laugh  at  the  expense  of  Mack- 
intosh. He  would  say  ridiculous  things  about  him 
to  the  natives,  and  Mackintosh,  his  knowledge  of 
Samoan  still  imperfect,  would  see  their  unrestrained 
mirth  when  Walker  had  made  an  obscene  reference 
to  him.  He  smiled  good-humouredly. 

"I'll  say  this  for  you,  Mac,"  Walker  would  say 
in  his  gruff  loud  voice,  "you  can  take  a  joke." 


MACKINTOSH  25 

"Was  it  a  joke?"  smiled  Mackintosh.  "I  didn't 
know." 

"Scots  wha  hae !"  shouted  Walker,  with  a  bellow 
of  laughter.  "There's  only  one  way  to  make  a 
Scotchman  see  a  joke  and  that's  by  a  surgical  opera- 
tion." 

Walker  little  knew  that  there  was  nothing  Mack- 
intosh could  stand  less  than  chaff.  He  would  wake 
in  the  night,  the  breathless  night  of  the  rainy  sea- 
son, and  brood  sullenly  over  the  gibe  that  Walker 
had  uttered  carelessly  days  before.  It  rankled. 
His  heart  swelled  with  rage,  and  he  pictured  to  him- 
self ways  in  which  he  might  get  even  with  the  bully. 
He  had  tried  answering  him,  but  Walker  had  a  gift 
of  repartee,  coarse  and  obvious,  which  gave  him 
an  advantage.  The  dullness  of  his  intellect  made 
him  impervious  to  a  delicate  shaft.  His  self-sat- 
isfaction made  it  impossible  to  wound  him.  His 
loud  voice,  his  bellow  of  laughter,  were  weapons 
against  which  Mackintosh  had  nothing  to  counter, 
.and  he  learned  that  the  wisest  thing  was  never  to  be- 
tray his  irritation.  He  learned  to  control  himself. 
But  his  hatred  grew  till  it  was  a  monomania.  He 
watched  Walker  with  an  insane  vigilance.  He  fed 
his  own  self-esteem  by  every  instance  of  meanness 
on  Walker's  part,  by  every  exhibition  of  childish 
vanity,  of  cunning  and  of  vulgarity.  Walker  ate 
greedily,  noisily,  filthily,  and  Mackintosh  watched 
him  with  satisfaction.  He  took  note  of  the  foolish 
things  he  said  and  of  his  mistakes  in  grammar.  He 
knew  that  Walker  held  him  in  small  esteem,  and  he 
found  a  bitter  satisfaction  in  his  chief's  opinion  of 


26  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

him;  it  increased  his  own  contempt  for  the  narrow, 
complacent  old  man.  And  it  gave  him  a  singular 
pleasure  to  know  that  Walker  was  entirely  uncon- 
scious of  the  hatred  he  felt  for  him.  He  was  a  fool 
who  liked  popularity,  and  he  blandly  fancied  that 
everyone  admired  him.  Once  Mackintosh  had 
overheard  Walker  speaking  of  him. 

"He'll  be  all  right  when  I've  licked  him  into 
shape,"  he  said.  "He's  a  good  dog  and  he  loves 
his  master." 

Mackintosh  silently,  without  a  movement  of  his 
long,  sallow  face,  laughed  long  and  heartily. 

But  his  hatred  was  not  blind;  on  the  contrary,  it 
was  peculiarly  clear-sighted,  and  he  judged  Walk- 
er's capabilities  with  precision.  He  ruled  his 
small  kingdom  with  efficiency.  He  was  just  and 
honest.  With  opportunities  to  make  money  he  was 
a  poorer  man  than  when  he  was  first  appointed  to 
his  post,  and  his  only  support  for  his  old  age  was 
the  pension  which  he  expected  when  at  last  he  retired 
from  official  life.  His  pride  was  that  with  an  assist- 
ant and  a  half-caste  clerk  he  was  able  to  administer 
the  island  more  competently  than  Upolu,  the  island 
of  which  Apia  is  the  chief  town,  was  administered 
with  its  army  of  functionaries.  He  had  a  few  native 
policemen  to  sustain  his  authority,  but  he  made  no 
use  of  them.  He  governed  by  bluff  and  his  Irish 
humour. 

"They  insisted  on  building  a  jail  for  me,"  he  said. 
"What  the  devil  do  I  want  a  jail  for?  I'm  not 
going  to  put  the  natives  in  prison.  If  they  do 
wrong  I  know  how  to  deal  with  them." 


MACKINTOSH  27 

One  of  his  quarrels  with  the  higher  authorities 
at  Apia  was  that  he  claimed  entire  jurisdiction  over 
the  natives  of  his  island.  Whatever  their  crimes  he 
would  not  give  them  up  to  courts  competent  to  deal 
with  them,  and  several  times  an  angry  correspond- 
ence had  passed  between  him  and  the  Governor  at 
Upolu.  For  he  looked  upon  the  natives  as  his 
children.  And  that  was  the  amazing  thing  about 
this  coarse,  vulgar,  selfish  man;  he  loved  the  island 
on  which  he  had  lived  so  long  with  passion,  and  he 
had  for  the  natives  a  strange  rough  tenderness 
which  was  quite  wonderful. 

He  loved  to  ride  about  the  island  on  his  aid  grey 
mare  and  he  was  never  tired  of  its  beauty.  Saun- 
tering along  the  grassy  roads  among  the  coconut 
trees  he  would  stop  every  now  and  then  to  admire 
the  loveliness  of  the  scene.  Now  and  then  he 
would  come  upon  a  native  village  and  stop  while 
the  head  man  brought  him  a  bowl  of  kava.  He 
would  look  at  the  little  group  of  bell-shaped  huts 
with  their  high  thatched  roofs,  like  beehives,  and 
a  smile  would  spread  over  his  fat  face.  His  eyes 
rested  happily  on  the  spreading  green  of  the  bread- 
fruit trees. 

"By  George,  it's  like  the  garden  of  Eden." 

Sometimes  his  rides  took  him  along  the  coast 
and  through  the  trees  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  wide 
sea,  empty,  with  never  a  sail  to  disturb  the  loneli- 
ness; sometimes  he  climbed  a  hill  so  that  a  great 
stretch  of  country,  with  little  villages  nestling  among 
the  tall  trees,  was  spread  out  before  him  like  the 
kingdom  of  the  world,  and  he  would  sit  there  for 


28  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

an  hour  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  But  he  had  no 
words  to  express  his  feelings  and  to  relieve  them 
would  utter  an  obscene  jest;  it  was  as  though  his 
emotion  was  so  violent  that  he  needed  vulgarity  to 
break  the  tension. 

Mackintosh  observed  this  sentiment  with  an  icy 
disdain.  Walker  had  always  been  a  heavy  drinker, 
he  was  proud  of  his  capacity  to  see  men  half 
his  age  under  the  table  when  he  spent  a  night  in 
Apia,  and  he  had  the  sentimentality  of  the  toper. 
He  could  cry  over  the  stories  he  read  in  his  maga- 
zines and  yet  would  refuse  a  loan  to  some  trader  in 
difficulties  whom  he  had  known  for  twenty  years. 
He  was  close  with  his  money.  Once  Mackintosh 
said  to  him: 

"No  one  could  accuse  you  of  giving  money  away." 
He  took  it  as  a  compliment.  His  enthusiasm 
for  nature  was  but  the  drivelling  sensibility  of  the 
drunkard.  Nor  had  Mackintosh  any  sympathy 
for  his  chief's  feelings  towards  the  natives.  He 
loved  them  because  they  were  in  his  power,  as  a 
selfish  man  loves  his  dog,  and  his  mentality  was  on 
a  level  with  theirs.  Their  humour  was  obscene  and 
he  was  never  at  a  loss  for  the  lewd  remark.  He 
understood  them  and  they  understood  him.  He 
was  proud  of  his  influence  over  them.  He  looked 
upon  them  as  his  children  and  he  mixed  himself  in 
all  their  affairs.  But  he  was  very  jealous  of  his 
authority;  if  he  ruled  them  with  a  rod  of  iron, 
brooking  no  contradiction,  he  would  not  suffer  any 
of  the  white  men  on  the  island  to  take  advantage 
of  them.  He  watched  the  missionaries  suspiciously 


MACKINTOSH  29 

and,  if  they  did  anything  of  which  he  disapproved, 
was  able  to  make  life  so  unendurable  to  them  that 
if  he  could  not  get  them  removed  they  were  glad 
to  go  of  their  own  accord.  His  power  over  the  na- 
tives was  so  great  that  on  his  word  they  would  refuse 
labour  and  food  to  their  pastor.  On  the  other 
hand  he  showed  the  traders  no  favour.  He  took 
care  that  they  should  not  cheat  the  natives ;  he  saw 
that  they  got  a  fair  reward  for  their  work  and  their 
copra  and  that  the  traders  made  no  extravagant 
profit  on  the  wares  they  sold  them.  He  was  merciless 
to  a  bargain  that  he  thought  unfair.  Sometimes  the 
traders  would  complain  at  Apia  that  they  did  not  get 
fair  opportunities.  They  suffered  for  it.  Walker 
then  hesitated  at  no  calumny,  at  no  outrageous  lie, 
to  get  even  with  them,  and  they  found  that  if  they 
wanted  not  only  to  live  at  peace,  but  to  exist  at  all, 
they  had  to  accept  the  situation  on  his  own  terms. 
More  than  once  the  store  of  a  trader  obnoxious  to 
him  had  been  burned  down,  and  there  was  only  the 
appositeness  of  the  event  to  show  that  the  adminis- 
trator had  instigated  it.  Once  a  Swedish  half- 
caste,  ruined  by  the  burning,  had  gone  to  him  and 
roundly  accused  him  of  arson.  Walker  laughed  in 
his  face. 

"You  dirty  dog.  Your  mother  was  a  native  and 
you  try  to  cheat  the  natives.  If  your  rotten  old 
store  is  burned  down  it's  a  judgment  of  Providence; 
that's  what  it  is,  a  judgment  of  Providence.  Get 
out." 

And  as  the  man  was  hustled  out  by  two  native  po- 
licemen the  administrator  laughed  fatly. 


30  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"A  judgment  of  Providence." 

And  now  Mackintosh  watched  him  enter  upon 
the  day's  work.  He  began  with  the  sick,  for 
Walker  added  doctoring  to  his  other  activities,  and 
he  had  a  small  room  behind  the  office  full  of  drugs. 
An  elderly  man  came  forward,  a  man  with  a  crop 
of  curly  grey  hair,  in  a  blue  lava-lava,  elaborately 
tatooed,  with  the  skin  of  his  body  wrinkled  like  a 
wine-skin. 

"What  have  you  come  for?"  Walker  asked  him 
abruptly. 

In  a  whining  voice  the  man  said  that  he  could  not 
eat  without  vomiting  and  that  he  had  pains  here 
and  pains  there. 

"Go  to  the  missionaries,"  said  Walker.  "You 
know  that  I  only  cure  children." 

"I  have  been  to  the  missionaries  and  they  do  me 
no  good." 

"Then  go  home  and  prepare  yourself  to  die. 
Have  you  lived  so  long  and  still  want  to  go  on  liv- 
ing? You're  a  fool." 

The  man  broke  into  querulous  expostulation,  but 
Walker,  pointing  to  a  woman  with  a  sick  child  in  her 
arms,  told  her  to  bring  it  to  his  desk.  He  asked  her 
questions  and  looked  at  the  child. 

"I  will  give  you  medicine,"  he  said.  He  turned 
to  the  half-caste  clerk.  "Go  into  the  dispensary 
and  bring  me  some  calomel  pills." 

He  made  the  child  swallow  one  there  and  then 
and  gave  another  to  the  mother. 

"Take  the  child  away  and  keep  it  warm.  To- 
morrow it  will  be  dead  or  better." 


MACKINTOSH  81 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  lit  his  pipe. 

"Wonderful  stuff,  calomel.  I've  saved  more 
lives  with  it  than  all  the  hospital  doctors  at  Apia 
put  together." 

Walker  was  very  proud  of  his  skill,  and  with  the 
dogmatism  of  ignorance  had  no  patience  with  the 
members  of  the  medical  profession. 

"The  sort  of  case  I  like,"  he  said,  "is  the  one 
that  all  the  doctors  have  given  up  as  hopeless. 
When  the  doctors  have  said  they  can't  cure  you,  I 
say  to  them,  'come  to  me.'  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about 
the  fellow  who  had  a  cancer?" 

"Frequently,"  said  Mackintosh. 

"I  got  him  right  in  three  months." 

"You've  never  told  me  about  the  people  you 
haven't  cured." 

He  finished  this  part  of  the  work  and  went  on 
to  the  rest.  It  was  a  queer  medley.  There  was 
a  woman  who  could  not  get  on  with  her  husband  and 
a  man  who  complained  that  his  wife  had  run  away 
from  him. 

"Lucky  dog,"  said  Walker.  "Most  men  wish 
their  wives  would  too." 

There  was  a  long  complicated  quarrel  about  the 
ownership  of  a  few  yards  of  land.  There  was  a 
dispute  about  the  sharing  out  of  a  catch  of  fish. 
There  was  a  complaint  against  a  white  trader  be- 
cause he  had  given  short  measure.  Walker  lis- 
tened attentively  to  every  case,  made  up  his  mind 
quickly,  and  gave  his  decision.  Then  he  would  lis- 
ten to  nothing  more;  if  the  complainant  went  on 
he  was  hustled  out  of  the  office  by  a  policeman. 


32  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

Mackintosh  listened  to  it  all  with  sullen  irritation. 
On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  might  be  admitted  that 
rough  justice  was  done,  but  it  exasperated  the 
assistant  that  his  chief  trusted  his  instinct  rather 
than  the  evidence.  He  would  not  listen  to  reason. 
He  browbeat  the  witnesses  and  when  they  did  not 
see  what  he  wished  them  to  called  them  thieves  and 
liars. 

He  left  to  the  last  a  group  of  men  who  were  sit- 
ting in  the  corner  of  the  room.  He  had  deliber- 
ately ignored  them.  The  party  consisted  of  an  old 
chief,  a  tall,  dignified  man  with  short,  white  hair, 
in  a  new  lava-lava,  bearing  a  huge  fly  wisp  as  a  badge 
of  office,  his  son,  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  important 
men  of  the  village.  Walker  had  had  a  feud  with 
them  and  had  beaten  them.  As  was  characteristic 
of  him  he  meant  now  to  rub  in  his  victory,  and  be- 
cause he  had  them  down  to  profit  by  their  helpless- 
ness. The  facts  were  peculiar.  Walker  had  a  pas- 
sion for  building  roads.  When  he  had  come  to 
Talua  there  were  but  a  few  tracks  here  and  there, 
but  in  course  of  time  he  had  cut  roads  through  the 
country,  joining  the  villages  together,  and  it  was 
to  this  that  a  great  part  of  the  island's  prosperity 
was  due.  Whereas  in  the  old  days  it  had  been  im- 
possible to  get  the  produce  of  the  land,  copra  chiefly, 
down  to  the  coast  where  it  could  be  put  on  schoon- 
ers or  motor  launches  and  so  taken  to  Apia,  now 
transport  was  easy  and  simple.  His  ambition  was 
to  make  a  road  right  round  the  island  and  a  great 
part  of  it  was  already  built. 


MACKINTOSH  S3 

"In  two  years  I  shall  have  done  it,  and  then  I  can 
die  or  they  can  fire  me,  I  don't  care." 

His  roads  were  the  joy  of  his  heart  and  he  made 
excursions  constantly  to  see  that  they  were  kept  in 
order.  They  were  simple  enough,  wide  tracks, 
grass  covered,  cut  through  the  scrub  or  through 
the  plantations;  but  trees  had  to  be  rooted  out,  rocks 
dug  up  or  blasted,  and  here  and  there  levelling  had 
been  necessary.  He  was  proud  that  he  had  sur- 
mounted by  his  own  skill  such  difficulties  as  they 
presented.  He  rejoiced  in  his  disposition  of  them 
so  that  they  were  not  only  convenient,  but  showed 
off  the  beauties  of  the  island  which  his  soul  loved. 
When  he  spoke  of  his  roads  he  was  almost  a  poet. 
They  meandered  through  those  lovely  scenes,  and 
Walker  had  taken  care  that  here  and  there  they 
should  run  in  a  straight  line,  giving  you  a  green  vista 
through  the  tall  trees,  and  here  and  there  should 
turn  and  curve  so  that  the  heart  was  rested  by  the 
diversity.  It  was  amazing  that  this  coarse  and 
sensual  man  should  exercise  so  subtle  an  ingenuity 
to  get  the  effects  which  his  fancy  suggested  to  him. 
He  had  used  in  making  his  roads  all  the  fantastic 
skill  of  a  Japanese  gardener.  He  received  a  grant 
from  headquarters  for  the  work  but  took  a  curious 
pride  in  using  but  a  small  part  of  it,  and  the  year 
before  had  spent  only  a  hundred  pounds  of  the 
thousand  assigned  to  him. 

"What  do  they  want  money  for?"  he  boomed. 
"They'll  only  spend  it  on  all  kinds  of  muck  they 
don't  want;  what  the  missionaries  leave  them,  that 
is  to  say." 


34  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

For  no  particular  reason,  except  perhaps  pride 
in  the  economy  of  his  administration  and  the  desire 
to  contrast  his  efficiency  with  the  wasteful  methods 
of  the  authorities  at  Apia,  he  got  the  natives  to  do 
the  work  he  wanted  for  wages  that  were  almost 
nominal.  It  was  owing  to  this  tfrat  he  had  lately 
had  difficulty  with  the  village  whose  chief  men  now 
were  come  to  see  him.  The  chief's  son  had  been 
in  Upolu  for  a  year  and  on  coming  back  had  told 
his  people  of  the  large  sums  that  were  paid  at  Apia 
for  the  public  works.  In  long,  idle  talks  he  had 
inflamed  their  hearts  with  the  desire  for  gain.  He 
held  out  to  them  visions  of  vast  wealth  and  they 
thought  of  the  whisky  they  could  buy — it  was  dear, 
since  there  was  a  law  that  it  must  not  be  sold  to 
natives,  and  so  it  cost  them  double  what  the  white 
man  had  to  pay  for  it — they  thought  of  the  great 
sandal-wood  boxes  in  which  they  kept  their  treas- 
ures, and  the  scented  soap  and  potted  salmon,  the 
luxuries  for  which  the  Kanaka  will  sell  his  soul; 
so  that  when  the  administrator  sent  for  them  and 
told  them  he  wanted  a  road  made  from  their  village 
to  a  certain  point  along  the  coast  and  offered  them 
twenty  pounds,  they  asked  him  a  hundred.  The 
chief's  son  was  called  Manuma.  He  was  a  tall, 
handsome  fellow,  copper-coloured,  with  his  fuzzy 
hair  dyed  red  with  lime,  a  wreath  of  red  berries 
round  his  neck,  and  behind  his  ear  a  flower  like 
a  scarlet  flame  against  his  brown  face.  The  upper 
part  of  his  body  was  naked,  but  to  show  that  he 
was  no  longer  a  savage,  since  he  had  lived  in  Apia, 
he  wore  a  pair  of  dungarees  instead  of  a  lava- 


MACKINTOSH  35 

lava.  He  told  them  that  if  they  held  together  the 
administrator  would  be  obliged  to  accept  their 
terms.  His  heart  was  set  on  building  the  road  and 
when  he  found  they  would  not  work  for  less  he 
would  give  them  what  they  asked.  But  they  must 
not  move;  whatever  he  said  they  must  not  abate 
their  claim;  they  had  asked  a  hundred  and  that  they 
must  keep  to.  When  they  mentioned  the  figure, 
Walker  burst  into  a  shout  of  his  long,  deep-voiced 
laughter.  He  told  them  not  to  make  fools  of 
themselves,  but  to  set  about  the  work  at  once.  Be- 
cause he  was  in  a  good  humour  that  day  he  prom- 
ised to  give  them  a  feast  when  the  road  was  fin- 
ished. But  when  he  found  that  no  attempt  was 
made  to  start  work,  he  went  to  the  village  and 
asked  the  men  what  silly  game  they  were  playing. 
Manuma  had  coached  them  well.  They  were  quite 
calm,  they  did  not  attempt  to  argue — and  argument 
is  a  passion  with  the  Kanaka — they  merely  shrugged 
their  shoulders:  they  would  do  it  for  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  if  he  would  not  give  them  that  they 
would  do  no  work.  He  could  please  himself. 
They  did  not  care.  Then  Walker  flew  into  a  pas- 
sion. He  was  ugly  then.  His  short  fat  neck 
swelled  ominously,  his  red  face  grew  purple,  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth.  He  set  upon  the  natives 
with  invective.  He  knew  well  how  to  wound  and 
how  to  humiliate.  He  was  terrifying.  The  older 
men  grew  pale  and  uneasy.  They  hesitated.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  Manuma,  with  his  knowledge 
of  the  great  world,  and  their  dread  of  his  ridicule, 


36  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

they  would  have  yielded.     It  was  Manuma  who  an- 
swered Walker. 

"Pay  us  a  hundred  pounds  and  we  will  work." 
Walker,  shaking  his  fist  at  him,  called  him  every 
name  he  could  think  of.  He  riddled  him  with 
scorn.  Manuma  sat  still  and  smiled.  There  may 
have  been  more  bravado  than  confidence  in  his 
smile,  but  he  had  to  make  a  good  show  before  the 
others.  He  repeated  his  words. 

"Pay  us  a  hundred  pounds  and  we  will  work." 
They  thought  that  Walker  would  spring  on  him. 
It  would  not  have  been  the  first  time  that  he  had 
thrashed  a  native  with  his  own  hands ;  they  knew  his 
strength,  and  though  Walker  was  three  times  the 
age  of  the  young  man  and  six  inches  shorter  they 
did  not  doubt  that  he  was  more  than  a  match  for 
Manuma.  No  one  had  ever  thought  of  resisting 
the  savage  onslaught  of  the  administrator.  But 
Walker  said  nothing.  He  chuckled. 

"I  am  not  going  to  waste  my  time  with  a  pack 
of  fools,"  he  said.  "Talk  it  over  again.  You 
know  what  I  have  offered.  If  you  do  not  start 
in  a  week,  take  care." 

He  turned  round  and  walked  out  of  the  chief's  hut. 
He  untied  his  old  mare  and  it  was  typical  of  the  re- 
lations between  him  and  the  natives  that  one  of  the 
elder  men  hung  on  to  the  off  stirrup  while  Walker 
from  a  convenient  boulder  hoisted  himself  heavily 
into  the  saddle. 

That  same  night  when  Walker  according  to  his 
habit  was  strolling  along  the  road  that  ran  past  his 
house,  he  heard  something  whizz  past  him  and  with 


MACKINTOSH  37 

a  thud  strike  a  tree.  Something  had  been  thrown 
at  him.  He  ducked  instinctively.  With  a  shout, 
"Who's  that"?  he  ran  towards  the  place  from 
which  the  missile  had  come  and  he  heard  the  sound 
of  a  man  escaping  through  the  bush.  He  knew  it 
was  hopeless  to  pursue  in  the  darkness,  and  besides 
he  was  soon  out  of  breath,  so  he  stopped  and  made 
his  way  back  to  the  road.  He  looked  about  for 
what  had  been  thrown,  but  could  find  nothing.  It 
was  quite  dark.  He  went  quickly  back  to  the  house 
and  called  Mackintosh  and  the  Chinese  boy. 

"One  of  those  devils  has  thrown  something  at  me. 
Come  along  and  let's  find  out  what  it  was." 

He  told  the  boy  to  bring  a  lantern  and  the  three 
of  them  made  their  way  back  to  the  place.  They 
hunted  about  the  ground,  but  could  not  find  what 
they  sought.  Suddenly  the  boy  gave  a  guttural  cry. 
They  turned  to  look.  He  held  up  the  lantern,  and 
there,  sinister  in  the  light  that  cut  the  surrounding 
darkness,  was  a  long  knife  sticking  into  the  trunk  of 
a  coconut  tree.  It  had  been  thrown  with  such  force 
that  it  required  quite  an  effort  to  pull  it  out. 

"By  George,  if  he  hadn't  missed  me  I'd  have  been 
in  a  nice  state." 

Walker  handled  the  knife.  It  was  one  of  those 
knives,  made  in  imitation  of  the  sailor  knives 
brought  to  the  islands  a  hundred  years  before  by 
the  first  white  men,  used  to  divide  the  coconuts 
in  two  so  that  the  copra  might  be  dried.  It  was 
a  murderous  weapon,  and  the  blade,  twelve  inches 
long,  was  very  sharp.  Walker  chuckled  softly. 

"The  devil,  the  impudent  devil." 


88  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

He  had  no  doubt  it  was  Manuma  who  had  flung 
the  knife.  He  had  escaped  death  by  three  inches. 
He  was  not  angry.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  in  high 
spirits;  the  adventure  exhilarated  him,  and  when 
they  got  back  to  the  house,  calling  for  drinks,  he 
rubbed  his  hands  gleefully. 

"I'll  make  them  pay  for  this!" 

His  little  eyes  twinkled.  He  blew  himself  out 
like  a  turkey-cock,  and  for  the  second  time  within 
half  an  hour  insisted  on  telling  Mackintosh  every 
detail  of  the  affair.  Then  he  asked  him  to  play 
piquet,  and  while  they  played  he  boasted  of  his  in- 
tentions. Mackintosh  listened  with  tightened  lips. 

"But  why  should  you  grind  them  down  like  this?" 
he  asked.  "Twenty  pounds  is  precious  little  for  the 
work  ydu  want  them  to  do." 

"They  ought  to  be  precious  thankful  I  give  them 
anything." 

"Hang  it  all,  it's  not  your  own  money.  The  gov- 
ernment allots  you  a  reasonable  sum.  They  won't 
complain  if  you  spend  it." 

"They're  a  bunch  of  fools  at  Apia." 

Mackintosh  saw  that  Walker's  motive  was  merely 
vanity.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  won't  do  you  much  good  to  score  off  the  fel- 
lows at  Apia  at  the  cost  of  your  life." 

"Bless  you,  they  wouldn't  hurt  me,  these  people. 
They  couldn't  do  without  me.  They  worship  me. 
Manuma  is  a  fool.  He  only  threw  that  knife  to 
frighten  me." 

The  next  day  Walker  rode  over  again  to  the  vil- 
lage. It  was  called  Matautu.  He  did  not  get  oft 


MACKINTOSH  39 

his  horse.  When  he  reached  the  chief's  house  he 
saw  that  the  men  were  sitting  round  the  floor  in  a 
circle,  talking,  and  he  guessed  they  were  discussing 
again  the  question  of  the  road.  The  Samoan  huts 
are  formed  in  this  way:  Trunks  of  slender  trees 
are  placed  in  a  circle  at  intervals  of  perhaps  five 
or  six  feet;  a  tall  tree  is  set  in  the  middle  and  from 
this  downwards  slopes  the  thatched  roof.  Venetian 
blinds  of  coconut  leaves  can  be  pulled  down  at 
night  or  when  it  is  raining.  Ordinarily  the  hut  is 
open  all  round  so  that  the  breeze  can  blow  through 
freely.  Walker  rode  to  the  edge  of  the  hut  and 
called  out  to  the  chief. 

"Oh,  there,  Tangatu,  your  son  left  his  knife  in  a 
tree  last  night.  I  have  brought  it  back  to  you." 

He  flung  it  down  on  the  ground  in  the  midst  of 
the  circle,  and  with  a  low  burst  of  laughter  ambled 
off. 

On  Monday  he  went  out  to  see  if  they  had  started 
work.  There  was  no  sign  of  it.  He  rode  through 
the  village.  The  inhabitants  were  about  their  ordi- 
nary avocations.  Some  were  weaving  mats  of  the 
pandanus  leaf,  one  old  man  was  busy  with  a  kava 
bowl,  the  children  were  playing,  the  women  went 
about  their  household  chores.  Walker,  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  came  to  the  chief's  house. 

"Talofa~lit"  said  the  chief. 

"Talofa"  answered  Walker. 

Manuma  was  making  a  net.  He  sat  with  a  ciga- 
rette between  his  lips  and  looked  up  at  Walker  with 
a  smile  of  triumph. 


40  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"You  have  decided  that  you  will  not  make  the 
road?" 

The  chief  answered. 

"Not  unless  you  pay  us  one  hundred  pounds." 

"You  will  regret  it."  He  turned  to  Manuma. 
"And  you,  my  lad,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  your  back 
was  very  sore  before  you're  much  older." 

He  rode  away  chuckling.  He  left  the  natives 
vaguely  uneasy.  They  feared  the  fat  sinful  old 
man,  and  neither  the  missionaries'  abuse  of  him  nor 
the  scorn  which  Manuma  had  learnt  in  Apia  made 
them  forget  that  he  had  a  devilish  cunning  and  that 
no  man  had  ever  braved  him  without  in  the  long 
run  suffering  for  it.  They  found  out  within  twenty- 
four  hours  what  scheme  he  had  devised.  It  was 
characteristic.  For  next  morning  a  great  band  of 
men,  women,  and  children  came  into  the  village  and 
the  chief  men  said  that  they  had  made  a  bargain  with 
Walker  to  build  the  road.  He  had  offered  them 
twenty  pounds  and  they  had  accepted.  Now  the 
cunning  lay  in  this,  that  the  Polynesians  have  rules 
of  hospitality  which  have  all  the  force  of  laws;  an 
etiquette  of  absolute  rigidity  made  it  necessary  for 
the  people  of  the  village  not  only  to  give  lodging  to 
the  strangers,  but  to  provide  them  with  food  and 
drink  as  long  as  they  wished  to  stay.  The  inhabitants 
of  Matautu  were  outwitted.  Every  morning  the 
workers  went  out  in  a  joyous  band,  cut  down  trees, 
blasted  rocks,  levelled  here  and  there  and  then  in 
the  evening  tramped  back  again,  and  ate  and  drank, 
ate  heartily,  danced,  sang  hymns,  and  enjoyed 
life.  For  them  it  was  a  picnic.  But  soon  their 


MACKINTOSH  41 

hosts  began  to  wear  long  faces;  the  strangers  had 
enormous  appetites,  and  the  plantains  and  the 
bread-fruit  vanished  before  their  rapacity;  the  alli- 
gator-pear trees,  whose  fruit  sent  to  Apia  might  sell 
for  good  money,  were  stripped  bare.  Ruin  stared 
them  in  the  face.  And  then  they  found  that  the 
strangers  were  working  very  slowly.  Had  they  re- 
ceived a  hint  from  Walker  that  they  might  take 
their  time?  At  th«s  rate  by  the  time  the  road  was 
finished  there  would  not  be  a  scrap  of  food  in  the 
village.  And  worse  than  this,  they  were  a  laugh- 
ing-stock; when  one  or  other  of  them  went  to  some 
distant  hamlet  on  an  errand  he  found  that  the  story 
had  got  there  before  him,  and  he  was  met  with 
derisive  laughter.  There  is  nothing  the  Kanaka  can 
endure  less  than  ridicule.  It  was  not  long  before 
much  angry  talk  passed  among  the  sufferers. 
Manuma  was  no  longer  a  hero;  he  had  to  put  up 
with  a  good  deal  of  plain  speaking,  and  one  day 
what  Walker  had  suggested  came  to  pass:  a  heated 
argument  turned  into  a  quarrel  and  half  a  dozen 
of  the  young  men  set  upon  the  chief's  son  and  gave 
him  such  a  beating  that  for  a  week  he  lay  bruised 
and  sore  on  the  pandanus  mats.  He  turned  from 
side  to  side  and  could  find  no  ease.  Every  day  or 
two  the  administrator  rode  over  on  his  old  mare  and 
watched  the  progress  of  the  road.  He  was  not  a 
man  to  resist  the  temptation  of  taunting  the  fallen 
foe,  and  he  missed  no  opportunity  to  rub  into  the 
shamed  inhabitants  of  Matautu  the  bitterness  of 
their  humiliation.  He  broke  their  spirit.  And  one 
morning,  putting  their  pride  in  their  pockets,  a  figure 


42  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

of  speech,  since  pockets  they  had  not,  they  all  set  out 
with  the  strangers  and  started  working  on  the  road. 
It  was  urgent  to  get  it  done  quickly  if  they  wanted 
to  save  any  food  at  all,  and  the  whole  village  joined 
in.  But  they  worked  silently,  with  rage  and  morti- 
fication in  their  hearts,  and  even  the  children  toiled 
in  silence.  The  women  wept  as  they  carried  away 
bundles  of  brushwood.  When  Walker  saw  them 
he  laughed  so  much  that  he  almost  rolled  out  of 
his  saddle.  The  news  spread  quickly  and  tickled 
the  people  of  the  island  to  death.  This  was  the 
greatest  joke  of  all,  the  crowning  triumph  of  that 
cunning  old  white  man  whom  no  Kanaka  had  ever 
been  able  to  circumvent;  and  they  came  from  dis- 
tant villages,  with  their  wives  and  children,  to  look 
at  the  foolish  folk  who  had  refused  twenty  pounds 
to  make  the  road  and  now  were  forced  to  work  for 
nothing.  But  the  harder  they  worked  the  more 
easily  went  the  guests.  Why  should  they  hurry, 
when  they  were  getting  good  food  for  nothing  and 
the  longer  they  took  about  the  job  the  better  the 
joke  became?  At  last  the  wretched  villagers  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  they  were  come  this  morning 
to  beg  the  administrator  to  send  the  strangers  back 
to  their  own  homes.  If  he  would  do  this  they  prom- 
ised to  finish  the  road  themselves  for  nothing.  For 
him  it  was  a  victory  complete  and  unqualified.  They 
were  humbled.  A  look  of  arrogant  complacence 
spread  over  his  large,  naked  face,  and  he  seemed 
to  swell  in  his  chair  like  a  great  bullfrog.  There 
was  something  sinister  in  his  appearance,  so  that 


MACKINTOSH  43 

Mackintosh   shivered  with   disgust.     Then   in   his 
booming  tones  he  began  to  speak. 

"Is  it  for  my  good  that  I  make  the  road?  What 
benefit  do  you  think  I  get  out  of  it?  It  is  for  you, 
so  that  you  can  walk  in  comfort  and  carry  your 
copra  in  comfort.  I  offered  to  pay  you  for  your 
work,  though  it  was  for  your  own  sake  the  work 
;was  done.  I  offered  to  pay  you  generously.  Now 
*you  must  pay.  I  will  send  the  people  of  Manua  back 
to  their  homes  if  you  will  finish  the  road  and  pay 
the  twenty  pounds  that  I  have  to  pay  them." 

There  was  an  outcry.  They  sought  to  reason  with 
him.  They  told  him  they  had  not  the  money.  But 
to  everything  they  said  he  replied  with  brutal  gibes. 
Then  the  clock  struck. 

"Dinner  time,"  he  said.     "Turn  them  all  out." 

He  raised  himself  heavily  from  his  chair  and 
walked  out  of  the  room.  When  Mackintosh  followed 
him  he  found  him  already  seated  at  table,  a  napkin 
tied  round  his  neck,  holding  his  knife  and  fork  in 
readiness  for  the  meal  the  Chinese  cook  was  about 
to  bring.  He  was  in  high  spirits. 

"I  did  'em  down  fine,"  he  said,  as  Mackintosh  sat 
down.  "I  shan't  have  much  trouble  with  the  roads 
after  this." 

"I  suppose  you  were  joking,"  said  Mackintosh 
icily. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"You're  not  really  going  to  make  them  pay 
twenty  pounds?" 

"You  bet  your  life  I  am." 

"I'm  not  sure  you've  got  any  right  to." 


44  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Ain't  you?     I  guess  I've  got  the  right  to  do 
any  damned  thing  I  like  on  this  island." 
"I  think  you've  bullied  them  quite  enough." 
Walker  laughed  fatly.     He  did  not  care  what 
Mackintosh  thought. 

"When  I  want  your  opinion  I'll  ask  for  it." 
Mackintosh  grew  very  white.  He  knew  by  bit- 
ter experience  that  he  could  do  nothing  but  keep 
silence,  and  the  violent  effort  at  self-control  made 
him  sick  and  faint.  He  could  not  eat  the  food  that 
was  before  him  and  with  disgust  he  watched  Walker 
shovel  meat  into  his  vast  mouth.  He  was  a  dirty 
feeder,  and  to  sit  at  table  with  him  needed  a  strong 
stomach.  Mackintosh  shuddered.  A  tremendous 
desire  seized  him  to  humiliate  that  gross  and  cruel 
man;  he  would  give  anything  in  the  world  to  see 
him  in  the  dust,  suffering  as  much  as  he  had  made 
others  suffer.  He  had  never  loathed  the  bully  with 
such  loathing  as  now. 

The  day  wore  on.  Mackintosh  tried  to  sleep 
after  dinner,  but  the  passion  in  his  heart  prevented 
him;  he  tried  to  read,  but  the  letters  swam  before 
his  eyes.  The  sun  beat  down  pitilessly,  and  he 
longed  for  rain;  but  he  knew  that  rain  would  bring 
no  coolness;  it  would  only  make  it  hotter  and  more 
steamy.  He  was  a  native  of  Aberdeen  and  his  heart 
yearned  suddenly  for  the  icy  winds  that  whistled 
through  the  granite  streets  of  that  city.  Here  he 
was  a  prisoner,  imprisoned  not  only  by  that  placid 
sea,  but  by  his  hatred  for  that  horrible  old  man. 
He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  aching  head.  He  would 
like  to  kill  him.  But  he  pulled  himself  together. 


MACKINTOSH  45 

He  must  do  something  to  distract  his  mind,  and 
since  he  could  not  read  he  thought  he  would  set  his 
private  papers  in  order.  It  was  a  job  which  he  had 
long  meant  to  do  and  which  he  had  constantly  put 
off.  He  unlocked  the  drawer  of  his  desk  and  took 
out  a  handful  of  letters.  He  caught  sight  of  his 
revolver.  An  impulse,  no  sooner  realised  than  set 
aside,  to  put  a  bullet  through  his  head  and  so  es- 
cape from  the  intolerable  bondage  of  life  flashed 
through  his  mind.  He  noticed  that  in  the  damp 
air  the  revolver  was  slightly  rusted,  and  he  got  an 
oil  rag  and  began  to  clean  it.  It  was  while  he  was 
thus  occupied  that  he  grew  aware  of  someone  slink- 
ing round  the  door.  He  looked  up  and  called: 

"Who  is  there?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  Manuma 
showed  himself. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

The  chief's  son  stood  for  a  moment,  sullen  and 
silent,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  with  a  strangled 
voice. 

"We  can't  pay  twenty  pounds.  We  haven't  the 
money." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  said  Mackintosh.  "You 
heard  what  Mr  Walker  said." 

Manuma  began  to  plead,  half  in  Samoan  and 
half  in  English.  It  was  a  sing-song  whine,  with  the 
quavering  intonations  of  a  beggar,  and  it  filled 
Mackintosh  with  disgust.  It  outraged  him  that  the 
man  should  let  himself  be  so  crushed.  He  was  a 
pitiful  object. 


46  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"I  can  do  nothing,"  said  Mackintosh  irritably. 
"You  know  that  Mr  Walker  is  master  here." 

Manuma  was  silent  again.  He  still  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"I  am  sick,"  he  said  at  last.  "Give  me  some  medi- 
cine." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  sick.  I  have  pains  in 
my  body." 

"Don't  stand  there,"  said  Mackintosh  sharply. 
"Come  in  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Manuma  entered  the  little  room  and  stood  before 
the  desk. 

"I  have  pains  here  and  here." 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  loins  and  his  face  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  pain.  Suddenly  Mackin- 
tosh grew  conscious  that  the  boy's  eyes  were  rest- 
ing on  the  revolver  which  he  had  laid  on  the  desk 
when  Manuma  appeared  in  the  doorway.  There 
was  a  silence  between  the  two  which  to  Mackintosh 
was  endless.  He  seemed  to  read  the  thoughts 
which  were  in  the  Kanaka's  mind.  His  heart  beat 
violently.  And  then  he  felt  as  though  something 
possessed  him  so  that  he  acted  under  the  com- 
pulsion of  a  foreign  will.  Himself  did  not  make 
the  movements  of  his  body,  but  a  power  that  was 
strange  to  him.  His  throat  was  suddenly  dry,  and 
he  put  his  hand  to  it  mechanically  in  order  to  help 
his  speech.  He  was  impelled  to  avoid  Manuma's 
eyes. 

"Just  wait  here,"  he  said,  his  voice  sounded  as 
though  someone  had  seized  htm  by  the  windpipe, 


MACKINTOSH  47 

"and  I'll  fetch  you  something  from  the  dispensary." 

He  got  up.  Was  it  his  fancy  that  he  staggered 
a  little?  Manuma  stood  silently,  and  though  he 
kept  his  eyes  averted,  Mackintosh  knew  that  he  was 
looking  dully  out  of  the  door.  It  was  this  other 
person  that  possessed  him  that  drove  him  out  of  the 
room,  but  it  was  himself  that  took  a  handful  of 
muddled  papers  and  threw  them  on  the  revolver  in 
order  to  hide  it  from  view.  He  went  to  the  dis- 
pensary. He  got  a  pill  and  poured  out  some  blue 
draught  into  a  small  bottle,  and  then  came  out  into 
the  compound.  He  did  not  want  to  go  back  into  his 
own  bungalow,  so  he  called  to  Manuma. 

"Come  here." 

He  gave  him  the  drugs  and  instructions  how  to 
take  them.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  look  at  the  Kanaka. 
While  he  was  speaking  to  him  he  kept  his  eyes  on 
his  shoulder.  Manuma  took  the  medicine  and  slunk 
out  of  the  gate. 

Mackintosh  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
turned  over  once  more  the  old  newspapers.  But 
he  could  not  read  them.  The  house  was  very  still. 
Walker  was  upstairs  in  his  room  asleep,  the  Chinese 
cook  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  the  two  policemen  were 
out  fishing.  The  silence  that  seemed  to  brood  over 
the  house  was  unearthly,  and  there  hammered  in 
Mackintosh's  head  the  question  whether  the  revolver 
still  lay  where  he  had  placed  it.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  look.  The  uncertainty  was  hor- 
rible, but  the  certainty  would  be  more  horrible 
still.  He  sweated.  At  last  he  could  stand  the 


48  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

silence  no  longer,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  down  the  road  to  the  trader's,  a  man  named 
Jervis,  who  had  a  store  about  a  mile  away.  He 
was  a  half-caste,  but  even  that  amount  of  white 
blood  made  him  possible  to  talk  to.  He  wanted 
to  get  away  from  his  bungalow,  with  the  desk  lit- 
tered with  untidy  papers,  and  underneath  them 
something,  or  nothing.  He  walked  along  the  road. 
As  he  passed  the  fine  hut  of  a  chief  a  greeting  was 
called  out  to  him.  Then  he  came  to  the  store. 
Behind  the  counter  sat  the  trader's  daughter,  a 
swarthy  broad-featured  girl  in  a  pink  blouse  and  a 
white  drill  skirt.  Jervis  hoped  he  would  marry  her. 
He  had  money,  and  he  had  told  Mackintosh  that 
his  daughter's  husband  would  be  well-to-do.  She 
flushed  a  little  when  she  saw  Mackintosh. 

"Father's  just  unpacking  some  cases  that  have 
come  in  this  morning.  I'll  tell  him  you're  here." 

He  sat  down  and  the  girl  went  out  behind  the 
shop.  In  a  moment  her  mother  waddled  in,  a  huge 
old  woman,  a  chiefess,  who  owned  much  land  in  her 
own  right;  and  gave  him  her  hand.  Her  mon- 
strous obesity  was  an  offence,  but  she  managed  to 
convey  an  impression  of  dignity.  She  was  cordial 
without  obsequiousness;  affable,  but  conscious  of 
her  station. 

"You're  quite  a  stranger,  Mr  Mackintosh. 
Teresa  was  saying  only  this  morning:  'Why,  we 
never  see  Mr  Mackintosh  now.'  ' 

He  shuddered  a  little  as  he  thought  of  himself 
as  that  old  native's  son-in-law.  It  was  notorious 
that  she  ruled  her  husband,  notwithstanding  his 


MACKINTOSH  49 

white  blood,  with  a  firm  hand.  Hers  was  the  au- 
thority and  hers  the  business  head.  She  might  be 
no  more  than  Mrs  Jervis  to  the  white  people,  but 
her  father  had  been  a  chief  of  the  blood  royal,  and 
his  father  and  his  fathers  father  had  ruled  as  kings. 
The  trader  came  in,  small  beside  his  imposing  wife, 
a  dark  man  with  a  black  beard  going  grey,  in  ducks, 
with  handsome  eyes  and  flashing  teeth.  He  was  very 
British,  and  his  conversation  was  slangy,  but  you 
felt  he  spoke  English  as  a  foreign  tongue;  with  his 
family  he  used  the  language  of  his  native  mother. 
He  was  a  servile  man,  cringing  and  obsequious. 

"Ah,  Mr  Mackintosh,  this  is  a  joyful  surprise. 
Get  the  whisky,  Teresa;  Mr  Mackintosh  will  have 
a  gargle  with  us." 

He  gave  all  the  latest  news  of  Apia,  watching 
his  guest's  eyes  the  while,  so  that  he  might  know 
the  welcome  thing  to  say. 

"And  how  is  Walker?  We've  not  seen  him  just 
lately.  Mrs  Jervis  is  going  to  send  him  a  sucking- 
pig  one  day  this  week." 

"I  saw  him  riding  home  this  morning,"  said 
Teresa. 

"Here's  how,"  said  Jervis,  holding  up  his  whisky. 

Mackintosh  drank.  The  two  women  sat  and 
looked  at  him,  Mrs  Jervis  in  her  black  Mother 
Hubbard,  placid  and  haughty,  and  Teresa,  anxious 
to  smile  whenever  she  caught  his  eye,  while  the 
trader  gossiped  insufferably. 

"They  were  saying  in  Apia  it  was  about  time 
Walker  retired.  He  ain't  so  young  as  he  was. 


50  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

Things  have  changed  since  he  first  come  to  the 
islands  and  he  ain't  changed  with  them." 

"He'll  go  too  far,"  said  the  old  chiefess.  "The 
natives  aren't  satisfied." 

"That  was  a  good  joke  about  the  road,"  laughed 
the  trader.  "When  I  told  them  about  it  in  Apia 
they  fair  split  their  sides  with  laughing.  Good 
old  Walker." 

Mackintosh  looked  at  him  savagely.  What  did 
he  mean  by  talking  of  him  in  that  fashion?  To  a 
half-caste  trader  he  was  Mr  Walker.  It  was  on 
his  tongue  to  utter  a  harsh  rebuke  for  the  imperti- 
nence. He  did  not  know  what  held  him  back. 

"When  he  goes  I  hope  you'll  take  his  place,  Mr 
Mackintosh,"  said  Jervis.  "We  all  like  you  on  the 
island.  You  understand  the  natives.  They're  edu- 
cated now,  they  must  be  treated  differently  to  the 
old  days.  It  wants  an  educated  man  to  be  adminis- 
trator now.  Walker  was  only  a  trader  same  as 
I  am." 

Teresa's  eyes  glistened. 

"When  the  time  comes  if  there's  anything  anyone 
can  do  here,  you  bet  your  bottom  dollar  we'll  do  it. 
I'd  get  all  the  chiefs  to  go  over  to  Apia  and  make  a 
petition." 

Mackintosh  felt  horribly  sick.  It  had  not  struck 
him  that  if  anything  happened  to  Walker  it  might 
be  he  who  would  succeed  him.  It  was  true  that  no 
one  in  his  official  position  knew  the  island  so  well. 
He  got  up  suddenly  and  scarcely  taking  his  leave 
walked  back  to  the  compound.  And  now  he  went 


MACKINTOSH  51 

straight  to  his  room.  He  took  a  quick  look  at  his 
desk.  He  rummaged  among  the  papers. 

The  revolver  was  not  there. 

His  heart  thumped  violently  against  his  ribs.  He 
looked  for  the  revolver  everywhere.  He  hunted  in 
the  chairs  and  in  the  drawers.  He  looked  desper- 
ately, and  all  the  time  he  knew  he  would  not  find 
it.  Suddenly  he  heard  Walker's  gruff,  hearty  voice. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  up  to,  Mac?" 

He  started.  Walker  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way and  instinctively  he  turned  round  to  hide  what 
lay  upon  his  desk. 

"Tidying  up?"  quizzed  Walker.  "I've  told  'era 
to  put  the  grey  in  the  trap.  I'm  going  down  to 
Tafoni  to  bathe.  You'd  better  come  along." 

"All  right,"  said  Mackintosh. 

So  long  as  he  was  with  Walker  nothing  could 
happen.  The  place  they  were  bound  for  was  about 
three  miles  away,  and  there  was  a  fresh-water  pool, 
separated  by  a  thin  barrier  of  rock  from  the  sea, 
which  the  administrator  had  blasted  out  for  the  na- 
tives to  bathe  in.  He  had  done  this  at  spots  round 
the  island,  wherever  there  was  a  spring;  and  the 
fresh  water,  compared  with  the  sticky  warmth  of  the 
sea,  was  cool  and  invigorating.  They  drove  along 
the  silent  grassy  road,  splashing  now  and  then 
through  fords,  where  the  sea  had  forced  its  way 
in,  past  a  couple  of  native  villages,  the  bell-shaped 
huts  spaced  out  roomily  and  the  white  chapel  in  the 
middle,  and  at  the  third  village  they  got  out  of  the 
trap,  tied  up  the  horse,  and  walked  down  to  the  pool. 
They  were  accompanied  by  four  or  five  girls  and 


52  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

a  dozen  children.  Soon  they  were  all  splashing 
about,  shouting  and  laughing,  while  Walker,  in  a 
lava-lava,  swam  to  and  fro  like  an  unwieldy  por- 
poise. He  made  lewd  jokes  with  the  girls,  and  they 
amused  themselves  by  diving  under  him  and  wrig- 
gling away  when  he  tried  to  catch  them.  When  he 
was  tired  he  lay  down  on  a  rock,  while  the  girls  and 
children  surrounded  him;  it  was  a  happy  family;  and 
the  old  man,  huge,  with  his  crescent  of  white  hair 
and  his  shining  bald  crown,  looked  like  some  old 
sea  god.  Once  Mackintosh  caught  a  queer  soft  look 
in  his  eyes. 

"They're  dear  children,"  he  said.  "They  look 
upon  me  as  their  father." 

And  then  without  a  pause  he  turned  to  one  of 
the  girls  and  made  an  obscene  remark  which  sent 
them  all  into  fits  of  laughter.  Mackintosh  started 
to  dress.  With  his  thin  legs  and  thin  arms  he  made 
a  grotesque  figure,  a  sinister  Don  Quixote,  and 
Walker  began  to  make  coarse  jokes  about  him. 
They  were  acknowledged  with  little  smothered 
laughs.  Mackintosh  struggled  with  his  shirt.  He 
knew  he  looked  absurd,  but  he  hated  being  laughed 
at.  He  stood  silent  and  glowering. 

"If  you  want  to  get  back  in  time  for  dinner  you 
ought  to  come  soon." 

"You're  not  a  bad  fellow,  Mac.  Only  you're  a 
fool.  When  you're  doing  one  thing  you  always  want 
to  do  another.  That's  not  the  way  to  live." 

But  all  the  same  he  raised  himself  slowly  to  his 
feet  and  began  to  put  on  his  clothes.  They  saun- 
tered back  to  the  village,  drank  a  bowl  of  kava  with 


MACKINTOSH  53 

the  chief,  and  then,  after  a  joyful  farewell  from  all 
the  lazy  villagers,  drove  home. 

After  dinner,  according  to  his  habit,  Walker, 
lighting  his  cigar,  prepared  to  go  for  a  stroll.  Mack- 
intosh was  suddenly  seized  with  fear. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  rather  unwise  to  go  out  at 
night  by  yourself  just  now?" 

Walked  stared  at  him  with  his  round  blue  eyes. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"Remember  the  knife  the  other  night.  You've 
got  those  fellows'  backs  up." 

"Pooh!     They  wouldn't  dare." 

"Someone  dared  before." 

"That  was  only  a  bluff.  They  wouldn't  hurt  me. 
They  look  upon  me  as  a  father.  They  know  that 
whatever  I  do  is  for  their  own  good." 

Mackintosh  watched  him  with  contempt  in  his 
heart.  The  man's  self-complacency  outraged  him, 
and  yet  something,  he  knew  not  what,  made  him 
insist. 

"Remember  what  happened  this  morning.  It 
wouldn't  hurt  you  to  stay  at  home  just  to-night. 
I'll  play  piquet  with  you." 

"I'll  play  piquet  with  you  when  I  come  back. 
The  Kanaka  isn't  born  yet  who  can  make  me  alter 
my  plans." 

"You'd  better  let  me  come  with  you." 

"You  stay  where  you  are." 

Mackintosh  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had 
given  the  man  full  warning.  If  he  did  not  heed  it 
that  was  his  own  lookout.  Walker  put  on  his 
hat  and  went  out.  Mackintosh  began  to  read;  but 


54  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

then  he  thought  of  something;  perhaps  it  would  be 
as  well  to  have  his  own  whereabouts  quite  clear.  He 
crossed  over  to  the  kitchen  and,  inventing  some  pre- 
text, talked  for  a  few  minutes  with  the  cook.  Then 
he  got  out  the  gramophone  and  put  a  record  on  it, 
but  while  it  ground  out  its  melancholy  tune,  some 
comic  song  of  a  London  music-hall,  his  ear  was 
strained  for  a  sound  away  there  in  the  night.  At 
his  elbow  the  record  reeled  out  its  loudness,  the 
words  were  raucous,  but  notwithstanding  he  seemed 
to  be  surrounded  by  an  unearthly  silence.  He  heard 
the  dull  roar  of  the  breakers  against  the  reef.  He 
heard  the  breeze  sigh,  far  up,  in  the  leaves  of  the 
coconut  trees.  How  long  would  it  be?  It  was 
awful. 

He  heard  a  hoarse  laugh. 

"Wonders  will  never  cease.  It's  not  often  you 
play  yourself  a  tune,  Mac." 

Walker  stood  at  the  window,  red-faced,  bluff  and 
jovial. 

"Well,  you  see  I'm  alive  and  kicking.  What  were 
you  playing  for?" 

Walker  came  in. 

"Nerves  a  bit  dicky,  eh?  Playing  a  tune  to  keep 
your  pecker  up?" 

"I  was  playing  your  requiem." 

"What  the  devil's  that?"       4 

"  'Alf  o'  bitter  an'  a  pint  of  stout." 

"A  rattling  good  song  too.  I  don't  mind  how 
often  I  hear  it.  Now  I'm  ready  to  take  your 
money  off  you  at  piquet." 

They  played  and  Walker  bullied  his  way  to  vie* 


MACKINTOSH  55 

tory,  bluffing  his  opponent,  chaffing  him,  jeering  at 
his  mistakes,  up  to  every  dodge,  browbeating  him, 
exulting.  Presently  Mackintosh  recovered  his 
coolness,  and  standing  outside  himself,  as  it  were, 
he  was  able  to  take  a  detached  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing the  overbearing  old  man  and  in  his  own  cold 
reserve.  Somewhere  Manuma  sat  quietly  and 
awaited  his  opportunity. 

Walker  won  game  after  game  and  pocketed  his 
winnings  at  the  end  of  the  evening  in  high  good 
humour. 

"You'll  have  to  grow  a  little  bit  older  before  you 
stand  much  chance  against  me,  Mac.  The  fact  is  I 
have  a  natural  gift  for  cards." 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  much  gift  about  it 
when  I  happen  to  deal  you  fourteen  aces." 

"Good  cards  come  to  good  players,"  retorted 
Walker.  "I'd  have  won  if  I'd  had  your  hands." 

He  went  on  to  tell  long  stories  of  the  various 
occasions  on  which  he  had  played  cards  with  notori- 
ous sharpers  and  to  their  consternation  had  taken 
all  their  money  from  them.  He  boasted.  He 
praised  himself.  And  Mackintosh  listened  with 
absorption.  He  wanted  now  to  feed  his  hatred;  and 
everything  Walker  said,  every  gesture,  made  him 
more  detestable.  At  last  Walker  got  up. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  turn  in,"  he  said  with  a  loud 
yawn.  "I've  got  a  long  day  to-morrow." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  driving  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  island. 
I'll  start  at  five,  but  I  don't  expect  I  shall  get  back 
to  dinner  till  late." 


56  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

They  generally  dined  at  seven. 

"We'd  better  make  it  half  past  seven  then," 

"I  guess  it  would  be  as  well." 

Mackintosh  watched  him  knock  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe.  His  vitality  was  rude  and  exuberant. 
It  was  strange  to  think  that  death  hung  over  him. 
A  faint  smile  flickered  in  Mackintosh's  cold,  gloomy 
eyes. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you?" 

"What  in  God's  name  should  I  want  that  for? 
I'm  using  the  mare  and  she'll  have  enough  to  do 
to  carry  me ;  she  don't  want  to  drag  you  over  thirty 
miles  of  road." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  quite  realise  what  the  feel- 
ing is  at  Matautu.  I  think  it  would  be  safer  if  I 
came  with  you." 

Walker  burst  into  contemptuous  laughter. 

"You'd  be  a  fine  lot  of  use  in  a  scrap.  I'm  not 
a  great  hand  at  getting  the  wind  up." 

Now  the  smile  passed  from  Macintosh's  eyes 
to  his  lips.  It  distorted  them  painfully. 

"Quem  deus  vult  perdere  prius  dementat." 

"What  the  hell  is  that?"  said  Walker. 

"Latin,"  answered  Mackintosh  as  he  went  out. 

And  now  he  chuckled.  His  mood  had  changed. 
He  had  done  all  he  could  and  the  matter  was  in 
the  hands  of  fate.  He  slept  more  soundly  than 
he  had  done  for  weeks.  When  he  awoke  next 
morning  he  went  out.  After  a  good  night  he  found 
a  pleasant  exhilaration  in  the  freshness  of  the  early 
air.  The  sea  was  a  more  vivid  blue,  the  sky  more 
brilliant,  than  on  most  days,  the  trade  wind  was 


MACKINTOSH  5? 

fresh,  and  there  was  a  ripple  on  the  lagoon  as  the 
breeze  brushed  over  it  like  velvet  brushed  the  wrong 
way.  He  felt  himself  stronger  and  younger.  He 
entered  upon  the  day's  work  with  zest.  After  lunch- 
eon he  slept  again,  and  as  evening  drew  on  he  had 
the  bay  saddled  and  sauntered  through  the  bush. 
He  seemed  to  see  it  all  with  new  eyes.  He  felt 
more  normal.  The  extraordinary  thing  was  that 
he  was  able  to  put  Walker  out  of  his  mind  alto- 
gether. So  far  as  he  was  concerned  he  might  never 
have  existed. 

He  returned  late,  hot  after  his  ride,  and  bathed 
again.  Then  he  sat  on  the  verandah,  smoking  his 
pipe,  and  looked  at  the  day  declining  over  the  la- 
goon. In  the  sunset  the  lagoon,  rosy  and  purple 
and  green,  was  very  beautiful.  He  felt  at  peace 
with  the  world  and  with  himself.  When  the  cook 
came  out  to  say  that  dinner  was  ready  and  to  ask 
whether  he  should  wait,  Mackintosh  smiled  at  him 
with  friendly  eyes.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  half-past  seven.  Better  not  wait.  One 
can't  tell  when  the  boss'll  be  back." 

The  boy  nodded,  and  in  a  moment  Mackintosh 
saw  him  carry  across  the  yard  a  bowl  of  steaming 
soup.  He  got  up  lazily,  went  into  the  dining-room, 
and  ate  his  dinner.  Had  it  happened?  The  uncer- 
tainty was  amusing  and  Mackintosh  chuckled  in  the 
silence.  The  food  did  not  seem  so  monotonous  as 
usual,  and  even  though  there  was  Hamburger  steak, 
the  cook's  invariable  dish  when  his  poor  invention 
failed  him,  it  tasted  by  some  miracle  succulent  and 
spiced.  After  dinner  he  strolled  over  lazily  to  his 


58  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

bungalow  to  get  a  book.  He  liked  the  intense  still- 
ness, and  now  that  the  night  had  fallen  the  stars 
were  blazing  in  the  sky.  He  shouted  for  a  lamp 
and  in  a  moment  the  Chink  pattered  over  on  his 
bare  feet,  piercing  the  darkness  with  a  ray  of  light. 
He  put  the  lamp  on  the  desk  and  noiselessly  slipped 
out  of  the  room.  Mackintosh  stood  rooted  to  the 
floor,  for  there,  half  hidden  by  untidy  papers,  was 
his  revolver.  His  heart  throbbed  painfully,  and  he 
broke  into  a  sweat.  It  was  done  then. 

He  took  up  the  revolver  with  a  shaking  hand. 
Four  of  the  chambers  were  empty.  He  paused  a 
moment  and  looked  suspiciously  out  into  the  night, 
but  there  was  no  one  there.  He  quickly  slipped  four 
cartridges  into  the  empty  chambers  and  locked  the 
revolver  in  his  drawer. 

He  sat  down  to  wait. 

An  hour  passed,  a  second  hour  passed.  There 
was  nothing.  He  sat  at  his  desk  as  though  he  were 
writing,  but  he  neither  wrote  nor  read.  He  merely 
listened.  He  strained  his  ears  for  a  sound  travel- 
ling from  a  far  distance.  At  last  he  heard  hesi* 
tating  footsteps  and  knew  it  was  the  Chinese  cook. 

"Ah-Sung,"  he  called. 

The  boy  came  to  the  door. 

"Boss  velly  late,"  he  said.     "Dinner  no  good." 

Mackintosh  stared  at  him,  wondering  whether  he 
knew  what  had  happened,  and  whether,  when  he 
knew,  he  would  realise  on  what  terms  he  and 
Walker  had  been.  He  went  about  his  work,  sleek, 
silent,  and  smiling,  and  who  could  tell  his  thoughts? 


MACKINTOSH  fi9 

"I  expect  he's  had  dinner  on  the  way,  but  you 
must  keep  the  soup  hot  at  all  events." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when 
the  silence  was  suddenly  broken  into  by  a  confusion, 
cries,  and  a  rapid  patter  of  naked  feet.  A  number 
of  natives  ran  into  the  compound,  men  and  women 
and  children;  they  crowded  round  Mackintosh  and 
they  all  talked  at  once.  They  were  unintelligible. 
They  were  excited  and  frightened  and  some  of  them 
were  crying.  Mackintosh  pushed  his  way  through 
them  and  went  to  the  gateway.  Though  he  had 
scarcely  understood  what  they  said  he  knew  quite 
well  what  had  happened.  And  as  he  reached  the 
gate  the  dog-cart  arrived.  The  old  mare  was  being 
led  by  a  tall  Kanaka,  and  in  the  dog-cart  crouched 
two  men,  trying  to  hold  Walker  up.  A  little  crowd 
of  natives  surrounded  it. 

The  mare  was  led  into  the  yard  and  the  natives 
surged  in  after  it.  Mackintosh  shouted  to  them  to 
stand  back  and  the  two  policemen,  sprang  suddenly 
from  God  knows  where,  pushed  them  violently 
aside.  By  now  he  had  managed  to  understand  that 
some  lads  who  had  been  fishing,  on  their  way  back 
to  their  village  had  come  across  the  cart  on  the 
home  side  of  the  ford.  The  marc  was  nuzzling 
about  the  herbage  and  in  the  darkness  they  could 
just  see  the  great  white  bulk  of  the  old  man  sunk 
between  the  seat  and  the  dashboard.  At  first  they 
thought  he  was  drunk  and  they  peered  in,  grinning, 
but  then  they  heard  him  groan,  and  guessed  that 
something  was  amiss.  They  ran  to  the  village  and 
called  for  help.  It  was  when  they  returned,  acoom- 


60  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

panied  by  half  a   hundred  people,   that  they  dis- 
covered Walker  had  been  shot. 

With  a  sudden  thrill  of  horror  Mackintosh  asked 
himself  whether  he  was  already  dead.  The  first 
thing  at  all  events  was  to  get  him  out  of  the  cart, 
and  that,  owing  to  Walker's  corpulence,  was  a  diffi- 
cult job.  It  took  four  strong  men  to  lift  him. 
They  jolted  him  and  he  uttered  a  dull  groan.  He 
was  still  alive.  At  last  they  carried  him  into  the 
house,  up  the  stairs,  and  placed  him  on  his  bed. 
Then  Mackintosh  was  able  to  see  him,  for  in  the 
yard,  lit  only  by  half  a  dozen  hurricane  lamps, 
everything  had  been  obscured.  Walker's  white 
ducks  were  stained  with  blood,  and  the  men  who 
had  carried  him  wiped  their  hands,  red  and  sticky, 
on  their  lava-lavas.  Mackintosh  held  up  the  lamp. 
He  had  not  expected  the  old  man  to  be  so  pale.  His 
eyes  were  closed.  He  was  breathing  still,  his  pulse 
could  be  just  felt,  but  it  was  obvious  that  he  was 
dying.  Mackintosh  had  not  bargained  for  the 
shock  of  horror  that  convulsed  him.  He  saw  that 
the  native  clerk  was  there,  and  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  fear  told  him  to  go  into  the  dispensary  and  get 
what  was  necessary  for  a  hypodermic  injection. 
One  of  the  policemen  had  brought  up  the  whisky, 
and  Mackintosh  forced  a  little  into  the  old  man's 
mouth.  The  room  was  crowded  with  natives. 
They  sat  about  the  floor,  speechless  now  and  terri- 
fied, and  every  now  and  then  one  wailed  aloud.  It 
was  very  hot,  but  Mackintosh  felt  cold,  his  hands 
and  his  feet  were  like  ice,  and  he  had  to  make  a 
violent  effort  not  to  tremble  in  all  his  limbs.  He 


MACKINTOSH  61 

did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  did  not  know  if 
Walker  was  bleeding  still,  and  if  he  was,  how  he 
could  stop  the  bleeding. 

The  clerk  brought  the  hypodermic  needle. 

"You  give  it  to  him,"  said  Mackintosh.  "You're 
more  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  than  I  am." 

His  head  ached  horribly.  It  felt  as  though  all 
sorts  of  little  savage  things  were  beating  inside  it, 
trying  to  get  out.  They  watched  for  the  effect  of 
the  injection.  Presently  Walker  opened  his  eyes 
slowly.  He  did  not  seem  to  know  where  he  was. 

"Keep  quiet,"  said  Mackintosh.  "You're  at 
home.  You're  quite  safe." 

Walker's  lips  outlined  a  shadowy  smile. 

"They've  got  me,"  he  whispered. 

"I'll  get  Jervis  to  send  his  motor-boat  to  Apia 
at  once.  We'll  get  a  doctor  out  by  to-morrow  after- 


noon." 


There  was  a  long  pause  before  the  old  man  an- 
swered, 

"I  shall  be  dead  by  then." 

A  ghastly  expression  passed  over  Mackintosh's 
pale  face.  He  forced  himself  to  laugh. 

"What  rot !    You  keep  quiet  and  you'll  be  as  right 


as  rain." 


"Give  me  a  drink,"  said  Walker.  "A  stiff  one." 
With  shaking  hand  Mackintosh  poured  out 
whisky  and  water,  half  and  half,  and  held  the  glass 
while  Walker  drank  greedily.  It  seemed  to  restore 
him.  He  gave  a  long  sigh  and  a  little  colour  came 
into  his  great  fleshy  face.  Mackintosh  felt  ex- 


62  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

traordinarily  helpless.    He  stood  and  stared  at  the 
old  man. 

"If  you'll  tell  me  what  to  do  I'll  do  it,"  he  said. 

"There's  nothing  to  do.  Just  leave  me  alone. 
I'm  done  for." 

He  looked  dreadfully  pitiful  as  he  lay  on  the 
great  bed,  a  huge,  bloated,  old  man;  but  so  wan,  so 
weak,  it  was  heart-rending.  As  he  rested,  his  mind 
seemed  to  grow  clearer. 

"You  were  right,  Mac,"  he  said  presently.  "You 
warned  me." 

"I  wish  to  God  I'd  come  with  you." 

"You're  a  good  chap,  Mac,  only  you  don't  drink." 

There  was  another  long  silence,  and  it  was  clear 
that  Walker  was  sinking.  There  was  an  internal 
haemorrhage  and  even  Mackintosh  in  his  ignorance 
could  not  fail  to  see  that  his  chief  had  but  an  hour 
or  two  to  live.  He  stood  by  the  side  of  the  bed 
stock  still.  For  half  an  hour  perhaps  Walker  lay 
with  his  eyes  closed,  then  he  opened  them. 

"They'll  give  you  my  job,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Last 
time  I  was  in  Apia  I  told  them  you  were  all  right. 
Finish  my  road.  I  want  to  think  that'll  be  done. 
All  round  the  island." 

"I  don't  want  your  job.    You'll  get  all  right." 

Walker  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"I've  had  my  day.  Treat  them  fairly,  that's  the 
great  thing.  They're  children.  You  must  always 
remember  that.  You  must  be  firm  with  them,  but 
you  must  be  kind.  And  you  must  be  just.  I've 
never  made  a  bob  out  of  them.  I  haven't  saved  a 


MACKINTOSH  6S 

hundred  pounds  in  twenty  years.  The  road's  the 
great  thing.  Get  the  road  finished." 

Something  very  like  a  sob  was  wrung  from  Mack- 
intosh. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  Mac.  I  always  liked 
you." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  Mackintosh  thought  that 
he  would  never  open  them  again.  His  mouth  was 
so  dry  that  he  had  to  get  himself  something  to 
drink.  The  Chinese  cook  silently  put  a  chair  for 
him.  He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
waited.  He  did  not  know  how  long  a  time  passed. 
The  night  was  endless.  Suddenly  one  of  the  men 
sitting  there  broke  into  uncontrollable  sobbing, 
loudly,  like  a  child,  and  Mackintosh  grew  aware 
that  the  room  was  crowded  by  this  time  with  natives. 
They  sat  all  over  the  floor  on  their  haunches,  men 
and  women,  staring  at  the  bed. 

"What  are  all  these  people  doing  here?"  said 
Mackintosh.  "They've  got  no  right.  Turn  them 
out,  turn  them  out,  all  of  them." 

His  words  seemed  to  rouse  Walker,  for  he  opened 
his  eyes  once  more,  and  now  they  were  all  misty. 
He  wanted  to  speak,  but  he  was  so  weak  that 
Mackintosh  had  to  strain  his  ears  to  catch  what  he 
said. 

"Let  them  stay.  They're  my  children.  They 
ought  to  be  here." 

Mackintosh  turned  to  the  natives. 

"Stay  where  you  are.  He  wants  you.  But  be 
silent." 

A  faint  smile  came  over  the  old  man's  white  face. 


94  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Come  nearer,"  he  said. 

Mackintosh  bent  over  him.  His  eyes  were  closed 
and  the  words  he  said  were  like  a  wind  sighing 
through  the  fronds  of  the  coconut  trees. 

"Give  me  another  drink.  I've  got  something  to 
say." 

This  time  Mackintosh  gave  him  his  whisky  neat. 
Walker  collected  his  strength  in  a  final  effort  of  will. 

"Don't  make  a  fuss  about  this.  In  'ninety-five 
when  there  were  troubles  white  men  were  killed,  and 
the  fleet  came  and  shelled  the  villages.  A  lot  of 
people  were  killed  wtio'd  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
They're  damned  fools  at  Apia.  If  they  make  a 
fuss  they'll  only  punish  the  wrong  people.  I  don't 
want  anyone  punished." 

He  paused  for  a  while  to  rest. 

"You  must  say  it  was  an  accident.  No  one's  to 
blame.  Promise  me  that." 

"I'll  do  anything  you  like,"  whispered  Mackin- 
tosh. 

"Good  chap.  One  of  the  best.  They're  children. 
I'm  their  father.  A  father  don't  let  his  children 
get  into  trouble  if  he  can  help  it." 

A  ghost  of  a  chuckle  came  out  of  his  throat.  It 
was  astonishingly  weird  and  ghastly. 

"You're  a  religious  chap,  Mac.  What's  that 
about  forgiving  them?  You  know." 

For  a  while  Mackintosh  did  not  answer.  His  lips 
trembled. 

"Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do?" 

"That's  right.  Forgive  them.  I've  loved  them, 
you  know,  always  loved  them." 


MACKINTOSH  65 

He  sighed.  His  lips  faintly  moved,  and  now 
Mackintosh  had  to  put  his  ears  quite  close  to  them 
in  order  to  hear. 

"Hold  my  hand,"  he  said. 

Mackintosh  gave  a  gasp.  His  heart  seemed 
wrenched.  He  took  the  old  man's  hand,  so  cold  and 
weak,  a  coarse,  rough  hand,  and  held  it  in  his  own. 
And  thus  he  sat  until  he  nearly  started  out  of  his 
seat,  for  the  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  a  long 
rattle.  It  was  terrible  and  unearthly.  Walker  was 
dead.  Then  the  natives  broke  out  with  loud  cries. 
The  tears  ran  down  their  faces,  and  they  beat  their 
breasts. 

Mackintosh  disengaged  his  hand  from  the  dead 
man's,  and  staggering  like  one  drunk,  with  sleep  he 
went  out  of  the  room.  He  went  to  the  locked 
drawer  in  his  writing-desk  and  took  out  the  re- 
volver. He  walked  down  to  the  sea  and  walked 
into  the  lagoon;  he  waded  out  cautiously,  so  that  he 
should  not  trip  against  a  coral  rock,  till  the  water 
came  to  his  arm-pits.  Then  he  put  a  bullet  through 
his  head. 

An  hour  later  half  a  dozen  slim  brown  sharks 
were  splashing  and  struggling  at  the  spot  where  he 
fell. 


Ill 

The  Fall  of  Edward  Barnard 

B AXEMAN  HUNTER  slept  badly.  For  a 
fortnight  on  the  boat  that  brought  him  from 
Tahiti  to  San  Francisco  he  had  been  thinking  of  the 
story  he  had  to  tell,  and  for  three  days  on  the  train 
he  had  repeated  to  himself  the  words  in  which  he 
meant  to  tell  it.  But  in  a  few  hours  now  he  would 
be  in  Chicago,  and  doubts  assailed  him.  His  con- 
science, always  very  sensitive,  was  not  at  ease.  He 
was  uncertain  that  he  had  done  all  that  was  possible, 
it  was  on  his  honour  to  do  much  more  than  the  pos- 
sible, and  the  thought  was  disturbing  that,  in  a  mat- 
ter which  so  nearly  touched  his  own  interest,  he  had 
allowed  his  interest  to  prevail  over  his  quixotry. 
Self-sacrifice  appealed  so  keenly  to  his  imagination 
that  the  inability  to  exercise  it  gave  him  a  sense  of 
disillusion.  He  was  like  the  philanthropist  who  with 
altruistic  motives  builds  model  dwellings  for  the 
poor  and  finds  that  he  has  made  a  lucrative  in- 
vestment. He  cannot  prevent  the  satisfaction  he 
feels  in  the  ten  per  cent  which  rewards  the  bread 
he  had  cast  upon  the  waters,  but  he  has  an  awkward 
feeling  that  it  detracts  somewhat  from  the  savour 
of  his  virtue.  Bateman  Hunter  knew  that  his  heart 
was  pure,  but  he  was  not  quite  sure  how  steadfastly, 

66 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  67 

when  he  told  her  his  story,  he  would  endure  the 
scrutiny  of  Isabel  Longstaffe's  cool  grey  eyes.  They 
were  far-seeing  and  wise.  She  measured  the  stand- 
ards of  others  by  her  own  meticulous  uprightness 
and  there  could  be  no  greater  censure  than  the  cold 
silence  with  which  she  expressed  her  disapproval  of 
a  conduct  that  did  not  satisfy  her  exacting  code. 
There  was  no  appeal  from  her  judgment,  for,  having 
made  up  her  mind,  she  never  changed  it.  But 
Bateman  would  not  have  had  her  different.  He 
loved  not  only  the  beauty  of  her  person,  slim  and 
straight,  with  the  proud  carriage  of  her  head,  but 
still  more  the  beauty  of  her  soul.  With  her  truth- 
fulness, her  rigid  sense  of  honour,  her  fearless  out- 
look, she  seemed  to  him  to  collect  in  herself  all  that 
was  most  admirable  in  his  countrywomen.  But  he 
saw  in  her  something  more  than  the  perfect  type  of 
the  American  girl,  he  felt  that  her  exquisiteness  was 
peculiar  in  a  way  to  her  environment,  and  he  was 
assured  that  no  city  in  the  world  could  have  produced 
her  but  Chicago.  A  pang  seized  him  when  he  re- 
membered that  he  must  deal  so  bitter  a  blow  to  her 
pride,  and  anger  flamed  up  in  his  heart  when  he 
thought  of  Edward  Barnard. 

But  at  last  the  train  steamed  in  to  Chicago  and 
he  exulted  when  he  saw  the  long  streets  of  grey 
houses.  He  could  hardly  bear  his  impatience  at 
the  thought  of  State  and  Wabash  with  their  crowded 
pavements,  their  hustling  traffic,  and  their  noise. 
He  was  at  home.  And  he  was  glad  that  he  had 
been  born  in  the  most  important  city  in  the  United 
States.  San  Francisco  was  provincial,  New  York 


68  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

was  effete;  the  future  of  America  lay  in  the  develop- 
ment of  its  economic  possibilities,  and  Chicago,  by 
its  position  and  by  the  energy  of  its  citizens,  was 
destined  to  become  the  real  capital  of  the  country. 

"I  guess  I  shall  live  long  enough  to  see  it  the 
biggest  city  in  the  world,"  Bateman  said  to  himself 
as  he  stepped  down  to  the  platform. 

His  father  had  come  to  meet  him,  and  after  a 
hearty  handshake,  the  pair  of  them,  tall,  slender, 
and  well-made,  with  the  same  fine,  ascetic  features 
and  thin  lips,  walked  out  of  the  station.  Mr  Hun- 
ter's automobile  was  waiting  for  them  and  they  got 
in.  Mr  Hunter  caught  his  son's  proud  and  happy 
glance  as  he  looked  at  the  street. 

"Glad  to  be  back,  son?"  he  asked. 

"I  should  just  think  I  was,"  said  Bateman. 

His  eyes  devoured  the  restless  scene. 

"I  guess  there's  a  bit  more  traffic  here  than  in 
your  South  Sea  island,"  laughed  Mr  Hunter.  "Did 
you  like  it  there?" 

"Give  me  Chicago,  dad,"  answered  Bateman. 

"You  haven't  brought  Edward  Barnard  back  with 
you." 

"No." 

"How  was  he?" 

Bateman  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  his  hand- 
some, sensitive  face  darkened. 

"I'd  sooner  not  speak  about  him,  dad,"  he  said 
at  last. 

"That's  all  right,  my  son.  I  guess  your  mother 
v/i]\  be  a  happy  woman  to-day." 

!:ev  passed  out  of  the  crowded  streets  in  the 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  69 

Loop  and  drove  along  the  lake  till  they  came  to 
the  imposing  house,  an  exact  copy  of  a  chateau  on  the 
Loire,  which  Mr  Hunter  had  built  himself  some 
years  before.  As  soon  as  Bateman  was  alone  in 
his  room  he  asked  for  a  number  on  the  telephone. 
His  heart  leaped  when  he  heard  the  voice  that  an- 
swered him. 

"Good-morning,  Isabel,"  he  said  gaily. 

"Good-morning,  Bateman." 

"How  did  you  recognise  my  voice?" 

"It  is  not  so  long  since  I  heard  it  last.  Besides, 
I  was  expecting  you." 

"When  may  I  see  you?" 

"Unless  you  have  anything  better  to  do  perhaps 
you'll  dine  with  us  to-night." 

"You  know  very  well  that  I  couldn't  possibly  have 
anything  better  to  do." 

"I  suppose  that  you're  full  of  news?" 

He  thought  he  detected  in  her  voice  a  note  of 
apprehension. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  you  must  tell  me  to-night.    Good-bye." 

She  rang  off.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  that 
she  should  be  able  to  wait  so  many  unnecessary 
hours  to  know  what  so  immensely  concerned  her. 
To  Bateman  there  was  an  admirable  fortitude  in 
her  restraint. 

At  dinner,  at  which  beside  himself  and  Isabel  no 
one  was  present  but  her  father  and  mother,  he 
watched  her  guide  the  conversation  into  the  channels 
of  an  urbane  small-talk,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
in  just  such  a  manner  would  a  marquise  under  the 


70  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

shadow  of  the  guillotine  toy  with  the  affairs  of  a 
day  that  would  know  no  morrow.  Her  delicate 
features,  the  aristocratic  shortness  of  her  upper  lip, 
and  her  wealth  of  fair  hair  suggested  the  marquise 
again,  and  it  must  have  been  obvious,  even  if  it 
were  not  notorious,  that  in  her  veins  flowed  the  best 
blood  in  Chicago.  The  dining-room  was  a  fitting 
frame  to  her  fragile  beauty,  for  Isabel  had  caused 
the  house,  a  replica  of  a  palace  on  the  Grand  Canal 
at  Venice,  to  be  furnished  by  an  English  expert  in 
the  style  of  Louis  XV;  and  the  graceful  decoration 
linked  with  the  name  of  that  amorous  monarch  en- 
hanced her  loveliness  and  at  the  same  time  acquired 
from  it  a  more  profound  significance.  For  Isabel's, 
mind  was  richly  stored,  and  her  conversation,  how- 
ever light,  was  never  flippant.  She  spoke  now  of  the 
Musicale  to  which  she  and  her  mother  had  been  in 
the  afternoon,  of  the  lectures  which  an  English 
poet  was  giving  at  the  Auditorium,  of  the  political 
situation,  and  of  the  Old  Master  which  her  father 
had  recently  bought  for  fifty  thousand  dollars  in 
New  York.  It  comforted  Bateman  to  hear  her. 
He  felt  that  he  was  once  more  in  the  civilised  world, 
at  the  centre  of  culture  and  distinction;  and  certain 
voices,  troubling  and  yet  against  his  will  refusing  to 
still  their  clamour,  were  at  last  silent  in  his  heart. 

"Gee,  but  it's  good  to  be  back  in  Chicago,"  he 
said. 

At  last  dinner  was  over,  and  when  they  went  out 
of  the  dining-room  Isabel  said  to  her  mother: 

"I'm  going  to  take  Bateman  along  to  my  den. 
We  have  various  things  to  talk  about." 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  71 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Longstaffe. 
"You'll  find  your  father  and  me  in  the  Madame  du 
Barry  room  when  you're  through." 

Isabel  led  the  young  man  upstairs  and  showed 
him  into  the  room  of  which  he  had  so  many  charm- 
ing memories.  Though  he  knew  it  so  well  he  could 
not  repress  the  exclamation  of  delight  which  it  al- 
ways wrung  from  him.  She  looked  round  with  a 
smile. 

"I  think  it's  a  success,"  she  said.  "The  main, 
thing  is  that  it's  right.  There's  not  even  an  ash- 
tray that  isn't  of  the  period." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  makes  it  so  wonderful. 
Like  all  you  do  it's  so  superlatively  right." 

They  sat  down  in  front  of  a  log  fire  and  Isabel 
looked  at  him  with  calm  grave  eyes. 

"Now  what  have  you  to  say  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  begin." 

"Is  Edward  Barnard  coming  back?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  Bateman  spoke 
again,  and  with  each  of  them  it  was  filled  with 
many  thoughts.  It  was  a  difficult  story  he  had  to 
tell,  for  there  were  things  in  it  which  were  so  of- 
fensive to  her  sensitive  ears  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  tell  them,  and  yet  in  justice  to  her,  no  less  than 
in  justice  to  himself,  he  must  tell  her  the  whole 
truth. 

It  had  all  begun  long  ago  when  he  and  Edward 
Barnard,  still  at  college,  had  met  Isabel  Longstaffe 
at  the  tea-party  given  to  introduce  her  to  society. 
They  had  both  known  her  when  she  was  a  child 


72  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  they  long-legged  boys,  but  for  two  years  she 
had  been  in  Europe  to  finish  her  education  and  it 
was  with  a  surprised  delight  that  they  renewed 
acquaintance  with  the  lovely  girl  who  returned.  Both 
of  them  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her,  but  Bate- 
man  saw  quickly  that  she  had  eyes  only  for  Ed- 
ward, and,  devoted  to  his  friend,  he  resigned  him- 
self to  the  role  of  confidant.  He  passed  bitter  mo- 
ments, but  he  could  not  deny  that  Edward  was 
worthy  of  his  good  fortune,  and,  anxious  that  noth- 
ing should  impair  the  friendship  he  so  greatly 
valued,  he  took  care  never  by  a  hint  to  disclose  his 
own  feelings.  In  six  months  the  young  couple  were 
engaged.  But  they  were  very  young  and  Isabel's 
father  decided  that  they  should  not  marry  at  least 
till  Edward  graduated.  They  had  to  wait  a  year. 
Bateman  remembered  the  winter  at  the  end  of  which 
Isabel  and  Edward  were  to  be  married,  a  winter  of 
dances  and  theatre-parties  and  of  informal  gaieties 
at  which  he,  the  constant  third,  was  always  present. 
He  loved  her  no  less  because  she  would  shortly  be 
his  friend's  wife;  her  smile,  a  gay  word  she  flung 
him,  the  confidence  of  her  affection,  never  ceased  to 
delight  him;  and  he  congratulated  himself,  some- 
what complacently,  because  he  did  not  envy  them 
their  happiness.  Then  an  accident  happened.  A 
great  bank  failed,  there  was  a  panic  on  the  exchange, 
and  Edward  Barnard's  father  found  himself  a  ruined 
man.  He  came  home  one  night,  told  his  wife  that 
he  was  penniless,  and  after  dinner,  going  into  his 
study,  shot  himself. 

A  week  later,  Edward  Barnard,  with  a   tired, 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  73 

white  face,  went  to  Isabel  and  asked  her  to  release 
him.  Her  only  answer  was  to  throw  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Don't  make  it  harder  for  me,  sweet,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  let  you  go  now?  I  love 
you." 

"How  can  I  ask  you  to  marry  me?  The  whole 
thing's  hopeless.  Your  father  would  never  let  you. 
I  haven't  a  cent." 

"What  do  I  care?    I  love  you." 

He  told  her  his  plans.  He  had  to  earn  money  at 
once,  and  George  Braunschmidt,  an  old  friend  of 
his  family,  had  offered  to  take  him  into  his  own 
business.  He  was  a  South  Sea  merchant,  and  he 
had  agencies  in  many  of  the  islands  of  the  Pacific. 
He  had  suggested  that  Edward  should  go  to  Tahiti 
for  a  year  or  two,  where  under  the  best  of  his  man- 
agers he  could  learn  the  details  of  that  varied  trade, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  promised  the  young 
man  a  position  in  Chicago.  It  was  a  wonderful 
opportunity,  and  when  he  had  finished  his  explana- 
tions Isabel  was  once  more  all  smiles. 

"You  foolish  boy,  why  have  you  been  trying  to 
make  me  miserable?" 

His  face  lit  up  at  her  words  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"Isabel,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you'll  wait  for 
me?" 

"Don't  you  think  you're  worth  it?"  she  smiled. 

"Ah,  don't  laugh  at  me  now.  I  beseech  you  to 
be  serious.  It  may  be  for  two  years." 

"Have  no  fear.  I  love  you,  Edward.  When 
you  come  back  I  will  marry  you." 


74  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

Edward's  employer  was  a  man  who  did  not  like 
delay  and  he  had  told  him  that  if  he  took  the 
post  he  offered  he  must  sail  that  day  week  from 
San  Francisco.  Edward  spent  his  last  evening  with 
Isabel.  It  was  after  dinner  that  Mr  Longstaffe, 
saying  he  wanted  a  word  with  Edward,  took  him 
into  the  smoking-room.  Mr  Longstaffe  had  accepted 
good-naturedly  the  arrangement  which  his  daughter 
had  told  him  of  and  Edward  could  not  imagine 
what  mysterious  communication  he  had  now  to  make. 
He  was  not  a  little  perplexed  to  see  that  his  host 
was  embarrassed.  He  faltered.  He  talked  of 
trivial  things.  At  last  he  blurted  it  out. 

"I  guess  you've  heard  of  Arnold  Jackson,"  he 
said,  looking  at  Edward  with  a  frown. 

Edward  hesitated.  His  natural  truthfulness 
obliged  him  to  admit  a  knowledge  he  would  gladly 
have  been  able  to  deny. 

"Yes,  I  have.  But  it's  a  long  time  ago.  I  guess 
I  didn't  pay  very  much  attention." 

"There  are  not  many  people  in  Chicago  who 
haven't  heard  of  Arnold  Jackson,"  said  Mr  Long- 
staffe bitterly,  "and  if  there  are  they'll  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  someone  who'll  be  glad  to  tell 
them.  Did  you  know  he  was  Mrs  Longstaffe's 
brother?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  that." 

"Of  course  we've  had  no  communication  with  him 
for  many  years.  He  left  the  country  as  soon  as 
he  was  able  to,  and  I  guess  the  country  wasn't 
sorry  to  see  the  last  of  him.  We  understand  he 
lives  in  Tahiti.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  give  him  a 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  75 

wide  berth,  but  if  you  do  hear  anything  about  him 
Mrs  Longstaffe  and  I  would  be  very  glad  if  you'd 
let  us  know." 

"Sure." 

"That  was  all  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Now  I 
daresay  you'd  like  to  join  the  ladies." 

There  are  few  families  that  have  not  among  their 
members  one  whom,  if  their  neighbours  permitted, 
they  would  willingly  forget,  and  they  are  fortunate 
when  the  lapse  of  a  generation  or  two  has  invested 
his  vagaries  with  a  romantic  glamour.  But  when 
he  is  actually  alive,  if  his  peculiarities  are  not  of 
the  kind  that  can  be  condoned  by  the  phrase,  "he  is 
nobody's  enemy  but  his  own,"  a  safe  one  when  the 
culprit  has  no  worse  to  answer  for  than  alcoholism 
or  wandering  affections,  the  only  possible  course  is 
silence.  And  it  was  this  which  the  Longstaffes  had 
adopted  towards  Arnold  Jackson.  They  never 
talked  of  him.  They  would  not  even  pass  through 
the  street  in  which  he  had  lived.  Too  kind  to  make 
his  wife  and  children  suffer  for  his  misdeeds,  they 
had  supported  them  for  years,  but  on  the  under- 
standing that  they  should  live  in  Europe.  They  did 
everything  they  could  to  blot  out  all  recollection  of 
Arnold  Jackson  and  yet  were  conscious  that  the  story 
was  as  fresh  in  the  public  mind  as  when  first  the 
scandal  burst  upon  a  gaping  world.  Arnold  Jack- 
son was  as  black  a  sheep  as  any  family  could  suffer 
from.  A  wealthy  banker,  prominent  in  his  church,  a 
philanthropist,  a  man  respected  by  all,  not  only  for 
his  connections  (in  his  veins  ran  the  blue  blood  of 
Chicago),  but  also  for  his  upright  character,  he  was 


76  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

arrested  one  day  on  a  charge  of  fraud;  and  the 
dishonesty  which  the  trial  brought  to  light  was  not 
of  the  sort  which  could  be  explained  by  a  sudden 
temptation;  it  was  deliberate  and  systematic.  Arnold 
Jackson  was  a  rogue.  When  he  was  sent  to  the 
penitentiary  for  seven  years  there  were  few  who 
did  not  think  he  had  escaped  lightly. 

When  at  the  end  of  this  last  evening  the  lovers 
separated  it  was  with  many  protestations  of  devo- 
tion. Isabel,  all  tears,  was  consoled  a  little  by  her 
certainty  of  Edward's  passionate  love.  It  was  a 
strange  feeling  that  she  had.  It  made  her  wretched 
to  part  from  him  and  yet  she  was  happy  because 
he  adored  her. 

This  was  more  than  two  years  ago. 

He  had  written  to  her  by  every  mail  since  then, 
twenty-four  letters  in  all,  for  the  mail  went  but  once 
a  month,  and  his  letters  had  been  all  that  a  lover's 
letters  should  be.  They  were  intimate  and  charm- 
ing, humorous  sometimes,  especially  of  late,  and 
tender.  At  first  they  suggested  that  he  was  home- 
sick, they  were  full  of  his  desire  to  get  back  to 
Chicago  and  Isabel;  and,  a  little  anxiously,  she  wrote 
begging  him  to  persevere.  She  was  afraid  that  he 
might  throw  up  his  opportunity  and  come  racing 
back.  She  did  not  want  her  lover  to  lack  endurance 
and  she  quoted  to  him  the  lines: 

"/  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more." 

But  presently  he  seemed  to  settle  down  and  it 
made  Isabel  very  happy  to  observe  his  growing  en- 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  77 

thusiasm  to  introduce  American  methods  into  that 
forgotten  corner  of  the  world.  But  she  knew  him, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  year,  which  was  the  shortest 
time  he  could  possibly  stay  in  Tahiti,  she  expected 
to  have  to  use  all  her  influence  to  dissuade  him  from 
coming  home.  It  was  much  better  that  he  should 
learn  the  business  thoroughly,  and  if  they  had  been 
able  to  wait  a  year  there  seemed  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  wait  another.  She  talked  it  over 
with  Bateman  Hunter,  always  the  most  generous 
of  friends  (during  those  first  few  days  after  Ed- 
ward went  sfTe  did  not  know  what  she  would  have 
done  without  him),  and  they  decided  that  Edward's 
future  must  stand  before  everything.  It  was  with 
relief  that  she  found  as  the  time  passed  that  he 
made  no  suggestion  of  returning. 

"He's  splendid,  isn't  he?"  she  exclaimed  to  Bate- 
man. 

"He's  white,  through  and  through." 

"Reading  between  the  lines  of  his  letter  I  know 
he  hates  it  over  there,  but  he's  sticking  it  out  be- 
cause .  .  ." 

She  blushed  a  little  and  Bateman,  with  the  grave 
smile  which  was  so  attractive  in  him,  finished  the 
sentence  for  her. 

"Because  he  loves  you." 

"It  makes  me  feel  so  humble,"  she  said. 

"You're  wonderful,  Isabel,  you're  perfectly  won- 
derful." 

But  the  second  year  passed  and  every  month 
Isabel  continued  to  receive  a  letter  from  Edward, 
and  presently  it  began  to  seem  a  little  strange  that 


78  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

he  did  not  speak  of  coming  back.  He  wrote  as 
though  he  were  settled  definitely  in  Tahiti,  and  what 
was  more,  comfortably  settled.  She  was  surprised. 
Then  she  read  his  letters  again,  all  of  them,  several 
times;  and  now,  reading  between  the  lines  indeed, 
she  was  puzzled  to  notice  a  change  which  had  es- 
caped her.  The  later  letters  were  as  tender  and  as 
delightful  as  the  first,  but  the  tone  was  different. 
She  was  vaguely  suspicious  of  their  humour,  she  had 
the  instinctive  mistrust  of  her  sex  for  that  unaccount- 
able quality,  and  she  discerned  in  them  now  a  flip- 
pancy which  perplexed  her.  She  was  not  quite  cer- 
tain that  the  Edward  who  wrote  to  her  now  was 
the  same  Edward  that  she  had  known.  One  after- 
noon, the  day  after  a  mail  had  arrived  from  Tahiti, 
when  she  was  driving  with  Bateman  he  said  to  her: 

"Did  Edward  tell  you  when  he  was  sailing?" 

"No,  he  didn't  mention  it.  I  thought  he  might 
have  said  something  to  you  about  it." 

"Not  a  word." 

"You  know  what  Edward  is,"  she  laughed  in 
reply,  "he  has  no  sense  of  time.  If  it  occurs  to  you 
next  time  you  write  you  might  ask  him  when  he's 
thinking  of  coming." 

Her  manner  was  so  unconcerned  that  only  Bate- 
man's  acute  sensitiveness  could  have  discerned  in 
her  request  a  very  urgent  desire.  He  laughed 
lightly. 

"Yes.  I'll  ask  him.  I  can't  imagine  what  he's 
thinking  about." 

A  few  days  later,  meeting  him  again,  she  noticed 
that  something  troubled  him.  They  had  been  much 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  79 

together  since  Edward  left  Chicago ;  they  were  both 
devoted  to  him  and  each  in  his  desire  to  talk  of  the 
absent  one  found  a  willing  listener;  the  consequence 
was  that  Isabel  knew  every  expression  of  Bateman's 
face,  and  his  denials  now  were  useless  against  her 
keen  instinct.  Something  told  her  that  his  harassed 
look  had  to  do  with  Edward  and  she  did  not  rest 
till  she  had  made  him  confess. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  heard  in  a  round- 
about way  that  Edward  was  no  longer  working  for 
Braunschmidt  and  Co.,  and  yesterday  I  took  the  op- 
portunity to  ask  Mr  Braunschmidt  himself." 

"Well?" 

"Edward  left  his  employment  with  them  nearly  a 
year  ago." 

"How  strange  he  should  have  said  nothing  about 
it!" 

Bateman  hesitated,  but  he  had  gone  so  far  now 
that  he  was  obliged  to  tell  the  rest.  It  made  him 
feel  dreadfully  embarrassed. 

"He  was  fired." 

"In  heaven's  name  what  for?" 

"It  appears  they  warned  him  once  or  twi«e,  and 
at  last  they  told  him  to  get  out.  They  say  he  was 
lazy  and  incompetent." 

"Edward?" 

They  were  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  he  saw 
that  Isabel  was  crying.  Instinctively  he  seized  her 
hand. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't,  don't,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
bear  to  see  it." 


80  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

She  was  so  unstrung  that  she  let  her  hand  rest  in 
his.  He  tried  to  console  her. 

"It's  incomprehensible,  isn't  it?  It's  so  unlike  Ed- 
ward. I  can't  help  feeling  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take." 

She  did  not  say  anything  for  a  while,  and  when 
she  spoke  it  was  hesitatingly. 

"Has  it  struck  you  that  there  was  anything  queer 
in  his  letters  lately?"  she  asked,  looking  away,  her 
eyes  all  bright  with  tears. 

He  did  not  quite  know  how  to  answer. 

"I  have  noticed  a  change  in  them,"  he  admitted. 
"He  seems  to  have  lost  that  high  seriousness  which 
I  admired  so  much  in  him.  One  would  almost  think 
that  the  things  that  matter — well,  don't  matter." 

Isabel  did  not  reply.     She  was  vaguely  uneasy. 

"Perhaps  in  his  answer  to  your  letter  he'll  say 
when  he's  coming  home.  All  we  can  do  is  to  wait 
for  that." 

Another  letter  came  from  Edward  for  each  of 
them,  and  still  he  made  no  mention  of  his  return; 
but  when  he  wrote  he  could  not  have  received  Bate- 
man's  enquiry.  The  next  mail  would  bring  them 
an  answer  to  that.  The  next  mail  came,  and  Bate- 
man  brought  Isabel  the  letter  he  had  just  received; 
but  the  first  glance  of  his  face  was  enough  to  tell 
her  that  he  was  disconcerted.  She  read  it  through 
carefully  and  then,  with  slightly  tightened  lips,  read 
it  again. 

"It's  a  very  strange  letter,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
quite  understand  it." 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  81 

"One  might  almost  think  that  he  was  joshing 
me,"  said  Bateman,  flushing. 

"It  reads  like  that,  but  it  must  be  unintentional. 
That's  so  unlike  Edward." 

"He  says  nothing  about  coming  back." 

"If  I  weren't  so  confident  of  his  love  I  should 
think  ...  I  hardly  know  what  I  should  think." 

It  was  then  that  Bateman  had  broached  the 
scheme  which  during  the  afternoon  had  formed 
itself  in  his  brain.  The  firm,  founded  by  his  father, 
in  which  he  was  now  a  partner,  a  firm  which  manu- 
factured all  manner  of  motor  vehicles,  was  about  to 
establish  agencies  in  Honolulu,  Sidney,  and  Well- 
ington; and  Bateman  proposed  that  himself  should 
go  instead  of  the  manager  who  had  been  suggested. 
He  could  return  by  Tahiti;  in  fact,  travelling  from 
Wellington,  it  was  inevitable  to  do  so ;  and  he  could 
see  Edward. 

"There's  some  mystery  and  I'm  going  to  clear  it 
up.  That's  the  only  way  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  Bateman,  how  can  you  be  so  good  and 
kind?"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  know  there's  nothing  in  the  world  I  want 
more  than  your  happiness,  Isabel." 

She  looked  at  him  and  she  gave  him  her  hands. 

"You're  wonderful,  Bateman.  I  didn't  know 
there  was  anyone  in  the  world  like  you.  How  can 
I  ever  thank  you?" 

"I  don't  want  your  thanks.  I  only  want  to  be 
allowed  to  help  you." 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  flushed  a  little.  She 
was  so  used  to  him  that  she  had  forgotten  how  hand- 


82  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

some  he  was.  He  was  as  tall  as  Edward  and  as 
well  made,  but  he  was  dark  and  pale  of  face,  while 
Edward  was  ruddy.  Of  course  she  knew  he  loved 
her.  It  touched  her.  She  felt  very  tenderly  to- 
wards him. 

It  was  from  this  journey  that  Bateman  Hunter 
was  now  returned. 

The  business  part  of  it  took  him  somewhat  longer 
than  he  expected  and  he  had  much  time  to  think  of 
his  two  friends.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  could  be  nothing  serious  that  prevented  Edward 
from  coming  home,  a  pride,  perhaps,  which  made 
him  determined  to  make  good  before  he  claimed  the 
bride  he  adored;  but  it  was  a  pride  that  must  be 
reasoned  with.  Isabel  was  unhappy.  Edward  must 
come  back  to  Chicago  with  him  and  marry  her  at 
once.  A  position  could  be  found  for  him  in  the 
works  of  the  Hunter  Motor  Traction  and  Automo- 
bile Company.  Bateman,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
exulted  at  the  prospect  of  giving  happiness  to  the 
two  persons  he  loved  best  in  the  world  at  the  cost 
of  his  own.  He  would  never  marry.  He  would  be 
godfather  to  the  children  of  Edward  and  Isabel, 
and  many  years  later  when  they  were  both  dead  he 
would  tell  Isabel's  daughter  how  long,  long  ago  he 
had  loved  her  mother.  Bateman's  eyes  were  veiled 
with  tears  when  he  pictured  this  scene  to  himself. 

Meaning  to  take  Edward  by  surprise  he  had  not 
cabled  to  announce  his  arrival,  and  when  at  last  he 
landed  at  Tahiti  he  allowed  a  youth,  who  said  he 
was  the  son  of  the  house,  to  lead  him  to  the  Hotel 
de  la  Fleur.  He  chuckled  when  he  thought  of  his 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  83 

friend's  amazement  on  seeing  him,  the  most  unex- 
pected of  visitors,  walk  into  his  office. 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked,  as  they  went  along,  "can 
you  tell  me  where  I  shall  find  Mr.  Edward  Bar- 
nard?" 

"Barnard?"  said  the  youth.  "I  seem  to  know 
the  name." 

"He's  an  American.  A  tall  fellow  with  light 
brown  hair  and  blue  eyes.  He's  been  here  over  two 
years." 

"Of  course.  Now  I  know  who  you  mean.  You 
mean  Mr  Jackson's  nephew." 

"Whose  nephew?" 

"Mr  Arnold  Jackson." 

"I  don't  think  we're  speaking  of  the  same  per- 
son," answered  Bateman,  frigidly. 

He  was  startled.  It  was  queer  that  Arnold  Jack- 
son, known  apparently  to  all  and  sundry,  should  live 
here  under  the  disgraceful  name  in  which  he  had  been 
convicted.  But  Bateman  could  not  imagine  whom 
it  was  that  he  passed  off  as  his  nephew.  Mrs  Long- 
staffe  was  his  only  sister  and  he  had  never  had  a 
brother.  The  young  man  by  his  side  talked  volubly 
in  an  English  that  had  something  in  it  of  the  in- 
tonation of  a  foreign  tongue,  and  Bateman,  with  a 
sidelong  glance,  saw,  what  he  had  not  noticed  be- 
fore, that  there  was  in  him  a  good  deal  of  native 
blood.  A  touch  of  hauteur  involuntarily  entered 
into  his  manner.  They  reached  the  hotel.  When 
he  had  arranged  about  his  room  Bateman  asked  to 
be  directed  to  the  premises  of  Braunschmidt  &  Co. 
They  were  on  the  front,  facing  the  lagoon,  and, 


84  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

glad  to  feel  the  solid  earth  under  his  feet  after  eight 
days  at  sea,  he  sauntered  down  the  sunny  road  to  the 
water's  edge.  Having  found  the  place  he  sought, 
Bateman  sent  in  his  card  to  the  manager  and  was 
led  through  a  lofty  barn-like  room,  half  store  and 
half  warehouse,  to  an  office  in  which  sat  a  stout, 
spectacled,  bald-headed  man. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  shall  find  Mr  Edward 
Barnard?  I  understand  he  was  in  this  office  for 
some  time." 

"That  is  so.    I  don't  know  just  where  he  is." 

"But  I  thought  he  came  here  with  a  particular 
recommendation  from  Mr  Braunschmidt.  I  know 
Mr  Braunschmidt  very  well." 

The  fat  man  looked  at  Bateman  with  shrewd, 
suspicious  eyes.  He  called  to  one  of  the  boys  in 
the  warehouse. 

"Say,  Henry,  where's  Barnard  now,  d'you  know?" 

"He's  working  at  Cameron's,  I  think,"  came  the 
answer  from  someone  who  did  not  trouble  to  move. 

The  fat  man  nodded. 

"If  you  turn  to  your  left  when  you  get  out  of  here 
you'll  come  to  Cameron's  in  about  three  minutes." 

Bateman  hesitated. 

"I  think  I  should  tell  you  that  Edward  Barnard 
is  my  greatest  friend.  I  was  very  much  surprised 
when  I  heard  he'd  left  Braunschmidt  &  Co." 

The  fat  man's  eyes  contracted  till  they  seemed 
like  pin-points,  and  their  scrutiny  made  Bateman  so 
uncomfortable  that  he  felt  himself  blushing. 

"I  guess  Braunschmidt  &  Co.  and  Edward  Barn- 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  8d 

ard  didn't  see  eye  to  eye  on  certain  matters,"  he 
replied. 

Bateman  did  not  quite  like  the  fellow's  manner,  so 
he  got  up,  not  without  dignity,  and  with  an  apology 
for  troubling  him  bade  him  good-day.  He  left  the 
place  with  a  singular  feeling  that  the  man  he  had 
just  interviewed  had  much  to  tell  him,  but  no  in- 
tention of  telling  it.  He  walked  in  the  direction 
indicated  and  soon  found  himself  at  Cameron's. 
It  was  a  trader's  store,  such  as  he  had  passed  half 
a  dozen  of  on  his  way,  and  when  he  entered  the 
first  person  he  saw,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  measuring 
out  a  length  of  trade  cotton,  was  Edward.  It  gave 
him  a  start  to  see  him  engaged  in  so  humble  an  oc- 
cupation. But  he  had  scarcely  appeared  when  Ed- 
ward, looking  up,  caught  sight  of  him,  and  gave 
a  joyful  cry  of  surprise. 

"Bateman!  Who  ever  thought  of  seeing  you 
here?" 

He  stretched  his  arm  across  the  counter  and 
wrung  Bateman's  hand.  There  was  no  self-con- 
sciousness in  his  manner  and  the  embarrassment  was 
all  on  Bateman's  side. 

"Just  wait  till  I've  wrapped  this  package." 

With  perfect  assurance  he  ran  his  scissors  across 
the  stuff,  folded  it,  made  it  into  a  parcel,  and  handed 
it  to  the  dark-skinned  customer. 

"Pay  at  the  desk,  please." 

Then,  smiling,  with  bright  eyes,  he  turned  to 
Bateman. 

"How  did  you  show  up  here  ?  Gee,  I  am  delighted 


86  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  gee  you.  Sit  down,  old  man.  Make  yourself 
at  home." 

"We  can't  talk  here.  Come  along  to  my  hotel. 
I  suppose  you  can  get  away?" 

This  he  added  with  some  apprehension. 

"Of  course  I  can  get  away.  We're  not  so  business- 
like as  all  that  in  Tahiti."  He  called  out  to  a  Chinese 
•who  was  standing  behind  the  opposite  counter.  "Ah- 
Ling,  when  the  boss  comes  tell  him  a  friend  of  mine's 
just  arrived  from  America  and  I've  gone  out  to  have 
a  drain  with  him." 

"All-light,"  said  the  Chinese,  with  a  grin. 

Edward  slipped  on  a  coat  and,  putting  on  his 
hat,  accompanied  Bateman  out  of  the  store.  Bate- 
man  attempted  to  put  the  matter  facetiously. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  selling  three  and  a  half 
yards  of  rotten  cotton  to  a  greasy  nigger,"  he 
laughed. 

"Braunschmidt  fired  me,  you  know,  and  I  thought 
that  would  do  as  well  as  anything  else." 

Edward's  candour  seemed  to  Bateman  very  sur- 
prising, but  he  thought  it  indiscreet  to  pursue  the 
subject. 

"I  guess  you  won't  make  a  fortune  where  you 
are,"  he  answered,  somewhat  dryly. 

"I  guess  not.  But  I  earn  enough  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together,  and  I'm  quite  satisfied  with 
that." 

"You  wouldn't  have  been  two  years  ago." 

"We  grow  wiser  as  we  grow  older,"  retorted 
JEdward,  gaily. 

Bateman  took  a   glance  at  him.     Edward  was 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  87 

dressed  in  a  suit  of  shabby  white  ducks,  none  too 
clean,  and  a  large  straw  hat  of  native  make.  He 
was  thinner  than  he  had  been,  deeply  burned  by  the 
sun,  and  he  was  certainly  better  looking  than  ever. 
But  there  was  something  in  his  appearance  that 
disconcerted  Bateman.  He  walked  with  a  new 
jauntiness;  there  was  a  carelessness  in  his  demean- 
our, a  gaiety  about  nothing  in  particular,  which  Bate- 
man  could  not  precisely  blame,  but  which  exceedingly 
puzzled  him. 

"I'm  blest  if  I  can  see  what  he's  got  to  be  so 
darned  cheerful  about,"  he  said  to  himself. 

They  arrived  at  the  hotel  and  sat  on  the  terrace. 
A  Chinese  boy  brought  them  cocktails.  Edward 
was  most  anxious  to  hear  all  the  news  of  Chicago 
and  bombarded  his  friend  with  eager  questions.  His 
interest  was  natural  and  sincere.  But  the  odd  thing 
was  that  it  seemed  equally  divided  among  a  multi- 
tude of  subjects.  He  was  as  eager  to  know  how 
Bateman's  father  was  as  what  Isabel  was  doing.  He 
talked  of  her  without  a  shade  of  embarrassment, 
but  she  might  just  as  well  have  been  his  sister  as 
his  promised  wife;  and  before  Bateman  had  done 
analysing  the  exact  meaning  of  Edward's  remarks 
he  found  that  the  conversation  had  drifted  to  his. 
own  work  and  the  buildings  his  father  had  lately 
erected.  He  was  determined  to  bring  the  conversa- 
tion back  to  Isabel  and  was  looking  for  the  occasion 
when  he  saw  Edward  wave  his  hand  cordially.  A 
man  was  advancing  towards  them  on  the  terrace,  but 
Bateman's  back  was  turned  to  him  and  he  could  not 
see  him. 


88  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Edward  gaily. 

The  new-comer  approached.  He  was  a  very  tall, 
thin  man,  in  white  ducks,  with  a  fine  head  of  curly 
white  hair.  His  face  was  thin  too,  long,  with  a  large, 
hooked  nose  and  a  beautiful,  expressive  mouth. 

"This  is  my  old  friend  Bateman  Hunter.  I've 
told  you  about  him,"  said  Edward,  his  constant  smile 
breaking  on  his  lips. 

"I'm  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr  Hunter.  I  used 
to  know  your  father." 

The  stranger  held  out  his  hand  and  took  the 
young  man's  in  a  strong,  friendly  grasp.  It  was  not 
till  then  that  Edward  mentioned  the  other's  name. 

"Mr  Arnold  Jackson." 

Bateman  turned  white  and  he  felt  his  hands  grow 
cold.  This  was  the  forger,  the  convict,  this  was 
Isabel's  uncle.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He 
tried  to  conceal  his  confusion.  Arnold  Jacks<^ 
looked  at  him  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"I  daresay  my  name  is  familiar  to  you." 

Bateman  did  not  know  whether  to  say  yes  or  no, 
and  what  made  it  more  awkward  was  that  both 
Jackson  and  Edward  seemed  to  be  amused.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  have  forced  on  him  the  acquaintance 
of  the  one  man  on  the  island  he  would  rather  have 
avoided,  but  worse  to  discern  that  he  was  being  made 
a  fool  of.  Perhaps,  however,  he  had  reached  this 
conclusion  too  quickly,  for  Jackson,  without  a  pause, 
added: 

"I  understand  you're  very  friendly  with  the  Long- 
staffes.  Mary  Longstaffe  is  my  sister." 

Now  Bateman  asked  himself  if  Arnold  Jackson 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  89 

could  think  him  ignorant  of  the  most  terrible  scandal 
that  Chicago  had  ever  known.  But  Jackson  put 
his  hand  on  Edward's  shoulder. 

"I  can't  sit  down,  Teddie,"  he  said.  "I'm  busy. 
But  you  two  boys  had  better  come  up  and  dine  to- 
night." 

"That'll  be  fine,"  said  Edward. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr  Jackson,"  said  Bate- 
man,  frigidly,  "but  I'm  here  for  so  short  a  time; 
my  boat  sails  to-morrow,  you  know;  I  think  if  you'll 
forgive  me,  I  won't  come." 

"Oh,  nonsense.  I'll  give  you  a  native  dinner.  My 
wife's  a  wonderful  cook.  Teddie  will  show  you  the 
way.  Come  early  so  as  to  see  the  sunset.  I  can  give 
you  both  a  shake-down  if  you  like." 

"Of  course  we'll  come,"  said  Edward.  "There's 
always  the  devil  of  a  row  in  the  hotel  on  the  night 
a  boat  arrives  and  we  can  have  a  good  yarn  up  at 
the  bungalow." 

"I  can't  let  you  off,  Mr  Hunter,"  Jackson  con- 
tinued with  the  utmost  cordiality.  "I  want  to  hear 
all  about  Chicago  and  Mary." 

He  nodded  and  walked  away  before  Bateman 
could  say  another  word. 

"We  don't  take  refusals  in  Tahiti,"  laughed  Ed- 
ward. "Besides,  you'll  get  the  best  dinner  on  the 
island." 

"What  did  he  mean  by  saying  his  wife  was  a  good 
cook?  I  happen  to  know  his  wife's  in  Geneva." 

"That's  a  long  way  off  for  a  wife,  isn't  it?"  said 
Edward.  "And  it's  a  long  time  since  he  saw  her.  I 
guess  it's  another  wife  he's  talking  about." 


90  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

For  some  time  Bateman  was  silent.  His  face  was 
set  in  grave  lines.  But  looking  up  he  caught  the 
amused  look  in  Edward's  eyes,  and  he  flushed 
darkly. 

"Arnold  Jackson  is  a  despicable  rogue,"  he  said. 

"I  greatly  fear  he  is,"  answered  Edward,  smiling. 

"I  don't  see  how  any  decent  man  can  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him." 

"Perhaps  I'm  not  a  decent  man." 

"Do  you  see  much  of  him,  Edward?" 

"Yes,  quite  a  lot.  He's  adopted  me  as  his 
nephew." 

Bateman  leaned  forward  and  fixed  Edward  with 
his  searching  eyes. 

"Do  you  like  him?" 

"Very  much." 

"But  don't  you  know,  doesn't  everyone  here  know, 
that  he's  a  forger  and  that  he's  been  a  convict?  He 
ought  to  be  hounded  out  of  civilised  society." 

Edward  watched  a  ring  of  smoke  that  floated 
from  his  cigar  into  the  still,  scented  air. 

"I  suppose  he  is  a  pretty  unmitigated  rascal,"  he 
said  at  last.  "And  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  any 
repentance  for  his  misdeeds  offers  one  an  excuse  for 
condoning  them.  He  was  a  swindler  and  a  hypo- 
crite. You  can't  get  away  from  it.  I  never  met 
a  more  agreeable  companion.  He's  taught  me 
everything  I  know." 

"What  has  he  taught  you?"  cried  Bateman  in 
amazement. 

"How  to  live." 

Bateman  broke  into  ironical  laughter. 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  91 

"A  fine  master.  Is  it  owing  to  his  lessons  that 
you  lost  the  chance  of  making  a  fortune  and  earn 
your  living  now  by  serving  behind  a  counter  in  a 
ten  cent  store?" 

"He  has  a  wonderful  personality,"  said  Edward, 
smiling  good-naturedly.  "Perhaps  you'll  see  what  I 
mean  to-night." 

"I'm  not  going  to  dine  with  him  if  that's  what 
you  mean.  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  set  foot 
within  that  man's  house." 

"Come  to  oblige  me,  Bateman.  We've  been 
friends  for  so  many  years,  you  won't  refuse  me  a 
favour  when  I  ask  it." 

Edward's  tone  had  in  it  a  quality  new  to  Bate- 
man. Its  gentleness  was  singularly  persuasive. 

"If  you  put  it  like  that,  Edward,  I'm  bound  to 
come,"  he  smiled. 

Bateman  reflected,  moreover,  that  it  would  be  as 
well  to  learn  what  he  could  about  Arnold  Jackson. 
It  was  plain  that  he  had  a  great  ascendency  over 
Edward,  and  if  it  was  to  be  combated  it  was  neces- 
sary to  discover  in  what  exactly  it  consisted.  The 
more  he  talked  with  Edward  the  more  conscious  he 
became  that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  him.  He 
had  an  instinct  that  it  behooved  him  to  walk  warily, 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  broach  the  real  pur- 
port of  his  visit  till  he  saw  his  way  more  clearly. 
He  began  to  talk  of  one  thing  and  another,  of  bis 
journey  and  what  he  had  achieved  by  it,  of  politics 
in  Chicago,  of  this  common  friend  and  that,  of  their 
days  together  at  college. 

At  last  Edward  said  he  must  get  back  to  his  work 


92  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  proposed  that  he  should  fetch  Batcman  at  five 
so  that  they  could  drive  out  together  to  Arnold 
Jackson's  house. 

"By  the  way,  I  rather  thought  you'd  be  living  at 
this  hotel,"  said  Bateman,  as  he  strolled  out  of  the 
garden  with  Edward.  "I  understand  it's  the  only 
decent  one  here." 

"Not  I,"  laughed  Edward.  "It's  a  deal  too 
grand  for  me.  I  rent  a  room  just  outside  the  town 
It's  cheap  and  clean." 

"If  I  remember  right  those  weren't  the  points 
that  seemed  most  important  to  you  when  you  lived 
in  Chicago." 

"Chicago!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,  Edward. 
It's  the  greatest  city  in  the  world." 

"I  know,"  said  Edward. 

Bateman  glanced  at  him  quickly,  but  his  face  was 
inscrutable. 

"When  are  you  coming  back  to  it?" 

"I  often  wonder,"  smiled  Edward. 

This  answer,  and  the  manner  of  it,  staggered 
Bateman,  but  before  he  could  ask  for  an  explanation 
Edward  waved  to  a  half-caste  who  was  driving  a 
passing  motor. 

"Give  us  a  ride  down,  Charlie,"  he  said. 

He  nodded  to  Bateman,  and  ran  after  the  ma- 
chine that  had  pulled  up  a  few  yards  in  front.  Bate- 
man was  left  to  piece  together  a  mass  of  perplexing 
impressions. 

Edward  called  for  him  in  a  rickety  trap  drawn 
by  an  old  mare,  and  they  drove  along  a  road  that 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  95 

ran  by  the  sea.  On  each  side  of  it  were  plantations, 
coconut  and  vanilla ;  and  now  and  then  they  saw  a 
great  mango,  its  fruit  yellow  and  red  and  purple 
among  the  massy  green  of  the  leaves;  now  and  then 
they  had  a  glimpse  of  the  lagoon,  smooth  and  blue, 
with  here  and  there  a  tiny  islet  graceful  with  tall 
palms.  Arnold  Jackson's  house  stood  on  a  little 
hill  and  only  a  path  led  to  it,  so  they  unharnessed 
the  mare  and  tied  her  to  a  tree,  leaving  the  trap  by 
the  side  of  the  road.  To  Bateman  it  seemed  a 
happy-go-lucky  way  of  doing  things.  But  when  they 
went  up  to  the  house  they  were  met  by  a  tall,  hand- 
some native  woman,  no  longer  young,  with  whom 
Edward  cordially  shook  hands.  He  introduced  Bate- 
man to  her. 

"This  is  my  friend  Mr  Hunter.  We're  going  to 
dine  with  you,  Lavina." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  smile.  "Arnold 
ain't  back  yet." 

"We'll  go  down  and  bathe.  Let  us  have  a  couple 
of  pareos" 

The  woman  nodded  and  went  into  the  house. 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Bateman. 

"Oh,  that's  Lavina.    She's  Arnold's  wife." 

Bateman  tightened  his  lips,  but  said  nothing.  In 
a  moment  the  woman  returned  with  a  bundle,  which 
she  gave  to  Edward;  and  the  two  men,  scrambling 
down  a  steep  path,  made  their  way  to  a  grove  of 
coconut  trees  on  the  beach.  They  undressed  and 
Edward  showed  his  friend  how  to  make  the  strip 
of  red  trade  cotton  which  is  called  a  pareo  into  a 
very  neat  pair  of  bathing-drawers.  Soon  they  were 


94  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

splashing  in  the  warm,  shallow  water.  Edward  was 
in  great  spirits.  He  laughed  and  shouted  and  sang. 
He  might  have  been  fifteen.  Bateman  had  never 
seen  him  so  gay,  and  afterwards  when  they  lay  on 
the  beach,  smoking  cigarettes,  in  the  limpid  air, 
there  was  such  an  irresistible  light-heartedness  in 
him  that  Bateman  was  taken  aback. 

"You  seem  to  find  life  mighty  pleasant,"  said  he. 

"I  do." 

They  heard  a  soft  movement  and  looking  round 
saw  that  Arnold  Jackson  was  coming  towards  them. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  down  and  fetch  you  two  boys 
back,"  he  said.  "Did  you  enjoy  your  bath,  Mr 
Hunter?" 

"Very  much,"  said  Bateman. 

Arnold  Jackson,  no  longer  in  spruce  ducks,  wore 
nothing  but  a  pareo  round  his  loins  and  walked  bare- 
foot. His  body  was  deeply  browned  by  the  sun. 
With  his  long,  curling  white  hair  and  his  ascetic 
face  he  made  a  fantastic  figure  in  the  native  dress, 
but  he  bore  himself  without  a  trace  of  self-conscious- 
ness. 

"If  you're  ready  we'll  go  right  up,"  said  Jack- 
son. 

"I'll  just  put  on  my  clothes,"  said  Bateman. 

"Why,  Teddie,  didn't  you  bring  a  pareo  for  your 
friend?" 

"I  guess  he'd  rather  wear  clothes,"  smiled  Ed- 
ward 

"I  certainly  would,"  answered  Bateman,  grimly, 
as  he  saw  Edward  gird  himself  in  the  loincloth  and 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  95 

stand  ready  to  start  before  he  himself  had  got  his 
shirt  on. 

"Won't  you  find  it  rough  walking  without  your 
shoes?"  he  asked  Edward.  "It  struck  me  the  path 
was  a  trifle  rocky." 

"Oh,  I'm  used  to  it." 

"It's  a  comfort  to  get  into  a  pareo  when  one  gets 
back  from  town,"  said  Jackson.  "If  you  were  going 
to  stay  here  I  should  strongly  recommend  you  to 
adopt  it.  It's  one  of  the  most  sensible  costumes  I 
have  ever  come  across.  It's  cool,  convenient,  and 
inexpensive." 

They  walked  up  to  the  house,  and  Jackson  took 
them  into  a  large  room  with  white-washed  walls  and 
an  open  ceiling  in  which  a  table  was  laid  for  dinner. 
Bateman  noticed  that  it  was  set  for  five. 

"Eva,  come  and  show  yourself  to  Teddie's  friend, 
and  then  shake  us  a  cocktail,"  called  Jackson. 

Then  he  led  Bateman  to  a  long  low  window. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  said,  with  a  dramatic  gesture. 
"Look  well." 

Below  them  coconut  trees  tumbled  down  steeply 
to  the  lagoon,  and  the  lagoon  in  the  evening  light 
had  the  colour,  tender  and  varied,  of  a  dove's  breast. 
On  a  creek,  at  a  little  distance,  were  the  clustered 
huts  of  a  native  village,  and  towards  the  reef  was  a 
canoe,  sharply  silhouetted,  in  which  were  a  couple  of 
natives  fishing.  Then,  beyond,  you  saw  the  vast 
calmness  of  the  Pacific  and  twenty  miles  away,  airy 
and  unsubstantial  like  the  fabric  of  a  poet's  fancy, 
the  unimaginable  beauty  of  the  island  which  is  called 


96  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

Murea.  It  was  all  so  lovely  that  Bateman  stood 
abashed. 

"I've  never  seen  anything  like  it,"  he  said  at 
last. 

Arnold  Jackson  stood  staring  in  front  of  him,  and 
in  his  eyes  was  a  dreamy  softness.  His  thin,  thought- 
ful face  was  very  grave.  Bateman,  glancing  at  it, 
was  once  more  conscious  of  its  intense  spirituality. 

"Beauty,"  murmured  Arnold  Jackson.  "You  sel- 
dom see  beauty  face  to  face.  Look  at  it  well,  Mr 
Hunter,  for  what  you  see  now  you  will  never  see 
again,  since  the  moment  is  transitory,  but  it  will  be 
an  imperishable  memory  in  your  heart.  You  touch 
eternity." 

His  voice  was  deep  and  resonant.  He  seemed  to 
breathe  forth  the  purest  idealism,  and  Bateman  had 
to  urge  himself  to  remember  that  the  man  who  spoke 
was  a  criminal  and  a  cruel  cheat  But  Edward,  as 
though  he  heard  a  sound,  turned  round  quickly. 

"Here  is  my  daughter,  Mr  Hunter." 

Bateman  shook  hands  with  her.  She  had  dark, 
splendid  eyes  and  a  red  mouth  tremulous  with 
laughter;  but  her  skin  was  brown,  and  her  curling 
hair,  rippling  down  her  shoulders,  was  coal  black. 
She  wore  but  one  garment,  a  Mother  Hubbard  of 
pink  cotton,  her  feet  were  bare,  and  she  was  crowned 
with  a  wreath  of  white  scented  flowers.  She  was  a 
lovely  creature.  She  was  like  a  goddess  of  the 
Polynesian  spring. 

She  was  a  little  shy,  but  not  more  shy  than  Bate- 
man, to  whom  the  whole  situation  was  highly  em- 
barrassing, and  it  did  not  put  him  at  his  ease  to  see 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  97 

this  sylph-like  thing  take  a  shaker  and  with  a  prac- 
tised hand  mix  three  cocktails. 

"Let  us  have  a  kick  in  them,  child,"  said  Jack- 
son. 

She  poured  them  out  and  smiling  delightfully 
handed  one  to  each  of  the  men.  Bateman  flattered 
himself  on  his  skill  in  the  subtle  art  of  shaking  cock- 
tails and  he  was  not  a  little  astonished,  on  tasting 
this  one,  to  find  that  it  was  excellent.  Jackson 
laughed  proudly  when  he  saw  his  guest's  involuntary 
look  of  appreciation. 

"Not  bad,  is  it?  I  taught  the  child  myself,  and 
in  the  old  days  in  Chicago  I  considered  that  there 
wasn't  a  bar-tender  in  the  city  that  could  hold  a 
candle  to  me.  When  I  had  nothing  better  to  do  in 
the  penitentiary  I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  thinking 
out  new  cocktails,  but  when  you  come  down  to  brass- 
tacks  there's  nothing  to  beat  a  dry  Martini." 

Bateman  felt  as  though  someone  had  given  him 
a  violent  blow  on  the  funny-bone  and  he  was  con- 
scious that  he  turned  red  and  then  white.  But  be- 
fore he  could  think  of  anything  to  say  a  native  boy 
brought  in  a  great  bowl  of  soup  and  the  whole  party 
sat  down  to  dinner.  Arnold  Jackson's  remark 
seemed  to  have  aroused  in  him  a  train  of  recollec- 
tions, for  he  began  to  talk  of  his  prison  days.  He 
talked  quite  naturally,  without  malice,  as  though  he 
were  relating  his  experiences  at  a  foreign  university. 
He  addressed  himself  to  Bateman  and  Bateman  was 
confused  and  then  confounded.  He  saw  Edward's 
eyes  fixed  on  him  and  there  was  in  them  a  flicker  of 
amusement.  He  blushed  scarlet,  for  it  struck  him 


98  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

that  Jackson  was  making  a  fool  of  him,  and  then 
because  he  felt  absurd — and  knew  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should — he  grew  angry.  Arnold 
Jackson  was  impudent — there  was  no  other  word 
for  it — and  his  callousness,  whether  assumed  or  not, 
was  outrageous.  The  dinner  proceeded.  Bateman 
was  asked  to  eat  sundry  messes,  raw  fish  and  he  knew 
not  what,  which  only  his  civility  induced  him  to 
swallow,  but  which  he  was  amazed  to  find  very  good 
eating.  Then  an  incident  happened  which  to  Bate- 
man was  the  most  mortifying  experience  of  the  eve- 
ning. There  was  a  little  circlet  of  flowers  in  front 
of  him,  and  for  the  sake  of  conversation  he  hazarded 
a  remark  about  it. 

"It's  a  wreath  that  Eva  made  for  you,"  said 
Jackson,  "but  I  guess  she  was  too  shy  to  give  it 
you." 

Bateman  took  it  up  in  his  hand  and  made  a  polite 
little  speech  of  thanks  to  the  girl. 

"You  must  put  it  on,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  and 
a  blush. 

"I?    I  don't  think  I'll  do  that." 

"It's  the  charming  custom  of  the  country,"  said 
Arnold  Jackson. 

There  was  one  in  front  of  him  and  he  placed  it 
on  his  hair.  Edward  did  the  same. 

"I  guess  I'm  not  dressed  for  the  part,"  said  Bate- 
man, uneasily. 

"Would  you  like  a  pareof"  said  Eva  quickly. 
"I'll  get  you  one  in  a  minute." 

"No,   thank  you.     I'm   quite   comfortable   as  I 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD  99 

"Show  him  how  to  put  it  on,  Eva,"  said  Edward. 

At  that  moment  Bateman  hated  his  greatest 
friend.  Eva  got  up  from  the  table  and  with  much 
laughter  placed  the  wreath  on  his  black  hair. 

"It  suits  you  very  well,"  said  Mrs  Jackson. 
"Don't  it  suit  him,  Arnold?" 

"Of  course  it  does." 

Bateman  sweated  at  every  pore. 

"Isn't  it  a  pity  it's  dark?"  said  Eva.  "We  could 
photograph  you  all  three  together." 

Bateman  thanked  his  stars  it  was.  He  felt  that 
he  must  look  prodigiously  foolish  in  his  blue  serge 
suit  and  high  collar — very  neat  and  gentlemanly — 
with  that  ridiculous  wreath  of  flowers  on  his  head. 
He  was  seething  with  indignation,  and  he  had  never 
in  his  life  exercised  more  self-control  than  now  when 
he  presented  an  affable  exterior.  He  was  furious 
with  that  old  man,  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
half-naked,  with  his  saintly  face  and  the  flowers  on 
his  handsome  white  locks.  The  whole  position  was 
monstrous. 

Then  dinner  came  to  an  end,  and  Eva  and  her 
mother  remained  to  clear  away  while  the  three  men 
sat  on  the  verandah.  It  was  very  warm  and  the 
air  was  scented  with  the  white  flowers  of  the  night. 
The  full  moon,  sailing  across  an  unclouded  sky,  made 
a  pathway  on  the  broad  sea  that  led  to  the  bound- 
less realms  of  Forever.  Arnold  Jackson  began  to 
talk.  His  voice  was  rich  and  musical.  He  talked 
now  of  the  natives  and  of  the  old  legends  of  the 
country.  He  told  strange  stories  of  the  past,  stories 
of  hazardous  expeditions  into  the  unknown,  of  love 


100  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  death,  of  hatred  and  revenge.  He  told  of  the 
adventurers  who  had  discovered  those  distant 
islands,  of  the  sailors  who,  settling  in  them,  had 
married  the  daughters  of  great  chieftains,  and  of 
the  beach-combers  who  had  led  their  varied  lives  on 
those  silvery  shores.  Bateman,  mortified  and 
exasperated,  at  first  listened  sullenly,  but  presently 
some  magic  in  the  words  possessed  him  and  he  sat 
entranced.  The  mirage  of  romance  obscured  the 
light  of  common  day.  Had  he  forgotten  that  Arnold 
Jackson  had  a  tongue  of  silver,  a  tongue  by  which 
he  had  charmed  vast  sums  out  of  the  credulous  pub- 
lic, a  tongue  which  very  nearly  enabled  him  to  escape 
the  penalty  of  his  crimes?  No  one  had  a  sweeter 
eloquence,  and  no  one  had  a  more  acute  sense  of 
climax.  Suddenly  he  rose. 

"Well,  you  two  boys  haven't  seen  one  another  for 
a  long  time.  I  shall  leave  you  to  have  a  yarn. 
Teddie  will  show  you  your  quarters  when  you  want 
to  go  to  bed." 

"Oh,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of  spending  the  night, 
Mr  Jackson,"  said  Bateman. 

"You'll  find  it  more  comfortable.  We'll  see  that 
you're  called  in  good  time." 

Then  with  a  courteous  shake  of  the  hand,  stately 
as  though  he  were  a  bishop  in  canonicals,  Arnold 
Jackson  took  leave  of  his  guest. 

"Of  course  I'll  drive  you  back  to  Papeete  if  you 
like,"  said  Edward,  "but  I  advise  you  to  stay.  It's 
bully  driving  in  the  early  morning." 

For  a  few  minutes  neither  of  them  spoke.  Bate- 
man wondered  how  he  should  begin  on  the  conversa- 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          101 

tion  which  all  the  events  of  the  day  made  him  think 
more  urgent. 

"When  are  you  coming  back  to  Chicago?"  he 
asked,  suddenly. 

For  a  moment  Edward  did  not  answer.  Then  he 
turned  rather  lazily  to  look  at  his  friend  and  smiled. 

"I  don't  know.    Perhaps  never." 

"What  in  heaven's  name  do  you  mean?"  cried 
Bateman. 

"I'm  very  happy  here.  Wouldn't  it  be  folly  to 
make  a  change?" 

"Man  alive,  you  can't  live  here  all  your  life.  This 
is  no  life  for  a  man.  It's  a  living  death.  Oh,  Ed- 
ward, come  away  at  once,  before  it's  too  late.  I've 
felt  that  something  was  wrong.  You're  infatuated 
with  the  place,  you've  succumbed  to  evil  influences, 
but  it  only  requires  a  wrench,  and  when  you're  free 
from  these  surroundings  you'll  thank  all  the  gods 
there  be.  You'll  be  like  a  dope-fiend  when  he's 
broken  from  his  drug.  You'll  see  then  that  for  two 
years  you've  been  breathing  poisoned  air.  You  can't 
imagine  what  a  relief  it  will  be  when  you  fill  your 
lungs  once  more  with  the  fresh,  pure  air  of  your 
native  country." 

He  spoke  quickly,  the  words  tumbling  over  one 
another  in  his  excitement,  and  there  was  in  his  voice 
sincere  and  affectionate  emotion.  Edward  was 
touched. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  care  so  much,  old  friend." 

"Come  with  me  to-morrow,  Edward.  It  was  a 
mistake  that  you  ever  came  to  this  place.  This  is  no 
life  for  you." 


102  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"You  talk  of  this  sort  of  life  and  that.  How  do 
you  think  a  man  gets  the  best  out  of  life?" 

"Why,  I  should  have  thought  there  could  be  no 
two  answers  to  that.  By  doing  his  duty,  by  hard 
work,  by  meeting  all  the  obligations  of  his  state  and 
station." 

"And  what  is  his  reward?" 

"His  reward  is  the  consciousness  of  having 
achieved  what  he  set  out  to  do." 

"It  all  sounds  a  little  portentous  to  me,"  said 
Edward,  and  in  the  lightness  of  the  night  Bateman 
could  see  that  he  was  smiling.  "I'm  afraid  you'll 
think  I've  degenerated  sadly.  There  are  several 
things  I  think  now  which  I  daresay  would  have 
seemed  outrageous  to  me  three  years  ago." 

"Have  you  learnt  them  from  Arnold  Jackson?" 
asked  Bateman,  scornfully. 

"You  don't  like  him?  Perhaps  you  couldn't  be 
expected  to.  I  didn't  when  I  first  came.  I  had  just 
the  same  prejudice  as  you.  He's  a  very  extraordi- 
nary man.  You  saw  for  yourself  that  he  makes 
no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  was  in  a  penitentiary. 
I  do  not  know  that  he  regrets  it  or  the  crimes  that 
led  him  there.  The  only  complaint  he  ever  made 
in  my  hearing  was  that  when  he  came  out  his  health 
was  impaired.  I  think  he  does  not  know  what  re- 
morse is.  He  is  completely  unmoral.  He  accepts 
everything  and  he  accepts  himself  as  well.  He's 
generous  and  kind." 

"He  always  was,"  interrupted  Bateman,  "on 
other  people's  money." 

"I've  found  him  a  very  good  friend.     Is  it  un- 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          103 

natural  that  I  should  take  a  man  as  I  find  him?" 

"The  result  is  that  you  lose  the  distinction  be- 
tween right  and  wrong." 

"No,  they  remain  just  as  clearly  divided  in  my 
mind  as  before,  but  what  has  become  a  little  con- 
fused in  me  is  the  distinction  between  the  bad  man 
and  the  good  one.  Is  Arnold  Jackson  a  bad  man 
who  does  good  things  or  a  good  man  who  does  bad 
things?  It's  a  difficult  question  to  answer.  Per- 
haps we  make  too  much  of  the  difference  between 
one  man  and  another.  Perhaps  even  the  best  of 
us  are  sinners  and  the  worst  of  us  are  saints.  Who 
knows?" 

"You  will  never  persuade  me  that  white  is  black 
and  that  black  is  white,"  said  Bateman. 

"I'm  sure  I  shan't,  Bateman." 

Bateman  could  not  understand  why  the  flicker 
of  a  smile  crossed  Edward's  lips  when  he  thus 
agreed  with  him.  Edward  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"When  I  saw  you  this  morning,  Bateman,"  he 
said  then,  "I  seemed  to  see  myself  as  I  was  two 
years  ago.  The  same  collar,  and  the  same  shoes, 
the  same  blue  suit,  the  same  energy.  The  same 
determination.  By  God,  I  was  energetic.  The 
sleepy  methods  of  this  place  made  my  blood  tingle. 
I  went  about  and  everywhere  I  saw  possibilities 
for  development  and  enterprise.  There  were  for- 
tunes to  be  made  here.  It  seemed  to  me  absurd 
that  the  copra  should  be  taken  away  from  here 
in  sacks  and  the  oil  extracted  in  America.  It  would 
be  far  more  economical  to  do  all  that  on  the  spot, 
with  cheap  labour,  and  save  freight,  and  I  saw  al- 


104  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

ready  the  vast  factories  springing  up  on  the  island. 
Then  the  way  they  extracted  it  from  the  coconut 
seemed  to  me  hopelessly  inadequate,  and  I  invented 
a  machine  which  divided  the  nut  and  scooped  out 
the  meat  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  and  forty  an 
hour.  The  harbour  was  not  large  enough.  I  made 
plans  to  enlarge  it,  then  to  form  a  syndicate  to  buy 
land,  put  up  two  or  three  large  hotels,  and  bunga- 
lows for  occasional  residents;  I  had  a  scheme  for 
improving  the  steamer  service  in  order  to  attract 
visitors  from  California.  In  twenty  years,  instead 
of  this  half  French,  lazy  little  town  of  Papeete  I 
saw  a  great  American  city  with  ten-story  build- 
ings and  street-cars,  a  theatre  and  an  opera  house,  a 
stock  exchange  and  a  mayor." 

"But  go  ahead,  Edward,"  cried  Bateman,  spring- 
ing up  from  the  chair  in  excitement.  "You've  got 
the  ideas  and  the  capacity.  Why,  you'll  become  the 
richest  man  between  Australia  and  the  States." 

Edward  chuckled  softly. 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  want  money,  big 
money,  money  running  into  millions?  Do  you  know 
what  you  can  do  with  it?  Do  you  know  the  power 
it  brings?  And  if  you  don't  care  about  it  for  your- 
self think  what  you  can  do,  opening  new  channels 
for  human  enterprise,  giving  occupation  to  thou- 
sands. My  brain  reels  at  the  visions  your  words 
have  conjured  up." 

"Sit  down,  then,  my  dear  Bateman,"  laughed  Ed- 
ward. "My  machine  for  cutting  the  coconuts  will 
always  remain  unused,  and  so  far  as  I'm  concerned 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          105 

street-cars   shall  never  run  in   the  idle   streets  of 
Papeete." 

Bateman  sank  heavily  into  his  chair. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said. 

"It  came  upon  me  little  by  little.  I  came  to  like 
the  life  here,  with  its  ease  and  its  leisure,  and  the 
people,  with  their  good-nature  and  their  happy  smil- 
ing faces.  I  began  to  think.  I'd  never  had  time 
to  do  that  before.  I  began  to  read." 

"You  always  read." 

"I  read  for  examinations.  I  read  in  order  to 
be  able  to  hold  my  own  in  conversation.  I  read 
for  instruction.  Here  I  learned  to  read  for  pleas- 
ure. I  learned  to  talk.  Do  you  know  that  conver- 
sation is  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  in  life?  But 
it  wants  leisure.  I'd  always  been  too  busy  before. 
And  gradually  all  the  life  that  had  seemed  so  im- 
portant to  me  began  to  seem  rather  trivial  and 
vulgar.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  hustle  and 
this  constant  striving?  I  think  of  Chicago  now 
and  I  see  a  dark,  grey  city,  all  stone — it  is  like 
a  prison — and  a  ceaseless  turmoil.  And  what 
does  all  that  activity  amount  to?  Does  one  get 
there  the  best  out  of  life?  Is  that  what  we  come 
into  the  world  for,  to  hurry  to  an  office,  and  work 
hour  after  hour  till  night,  then  hurry  home  and 
dine  and  go  to  a  theatre?  Is  that  how  I  must 
spend  my  youth?  Youth  lasts  so  short  a  time,  Bate- 
man. And  when  I  am  old,  what  have  I  to  look 
forward  to?  To  hurry  from  my  home  in  the  morn- 
ing to  my  office  and  work  hour  after  hour  till 
night,  and  then  hurry  home  again,  and  dine  and  go 


10«  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  a  theatre?  That  may  be  worth  while  if  you  make 
a  fortune;  I  don't  know,  it  depends  on  your  nature; 
but  if  you  don't,  is  it  worth  while  then?  I  want 
to  make  more  out  of  my  life  than  that,  Bateman." 

"What  do  you  value  in  life  then?" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  laugh  at  me.  Beauty,  truth, 
and  goodness." 

"Don't  you  think  you  can  have  those  in  Chicago?" 

"Some  men  can,  perhaps,  but  not  I."  Edward 
sprang  up  now.  "I  tell  you  when  I  think  of  the 
life  I  led  in  the  old  days  I  am  filled  with  horror,'* 
he  cried  violently.  "I  tremble  with  fear  when  I 
think  of  the  danger  I  have  escaped.  I  never  knew 
I  had  a  soul  till  I  found  it  here.  If  I  had  remained 
a  rich  man  I  might  have  lost  it  for  good  and  alL" 

"I  don't  know  how  you  can  say  that,"  cried  Bate- 
man indignantly.  "We  often  used  to  have  discus- 
sions about  it." 

"Yes,  I  know.  They  were  about  as  effectual  as 
the  discussions  of  deaf  mutes  about  harmony.  I 
shall  never  come  back  to  Chicago,  Bateman." 

"And  what  about  Isabel?" 

Edward  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  verandah  and 
leaning  over  looked  intently  at  the  blue  magic  of  the 
night.  There  was  a  slight  smile  on  his  face  when  he 
turned  back  to  Bateman. 

"Isabel  is  infinitely  too  good  for  me.  I  admire 
her  more  than  any  woman  I  have  ever  known.  She 
has  a  wonderful  brain  and  she's  as  good  as  she's 
beautiful.  I  respect  her  energy  and  her  ambition. 
She  was  born  to  make  a  success  of  life.  I  am  en- 
tirely unworthy  of  her." 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          107 

"She  doesn't  think  so." 

"But  you  must  tell  her  so,  Bateman." 

"I?"  cried  Bateman.  "I'm  the  last  person  who 
could  ever  do  that." 

Edward  had  his  back  to  the  vivid  light  of  the 
moon  and  his  face  could  not  be  seen.  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  he  smiled  again? 

"It's  no  good  your  trying  to  conceal  anything 
from  her,  Bateman.  With  her  quick  intelligence 
she'll  turn  you  inside  out  in  five  minutes.  You'd 
better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  right  away." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Of  course  I  shall 
tell  her  I've  seen  you."  Bateman  spoke  in  some 
agitation.  "Honestly  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
her." 

"Tell  her  that  I  haven't  made  good.  Tell  her 
that  I'm  not  only  poor,  but  that  I'm  content  to  be 
poor.  Tell  her  I  was  fired  from  my  job  because  I 
was  idle  and  inattentive.  Tell  her  all  you've  seen  to* 
night  and  all  I've  told  you." 

The  idea  which  on  a  sudden  flashed  through 
Bateman's  brain  brought  him  to  his  feet  and  in  un- 
controllable perturbation  he  faced  Edward. 

"Man  alive,  don't  you  want  to  marry  her?" 

Edward  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  can  never  ask  her  to  release  me.  If  she  wishes 
to  hold  me  to  my  word  I  will  do  my  best  to  make 
her  a  good  and  loving  husband." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  give  her  that  message, 
Edward?  Oh,  I  can't.  It's  terrible.  It's  never 
dawned  on  her  for  a  moment  that  you  don't  want 


108  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  marry  her.  She  loves  you.  How  can  I  inflict 
such  a  mortification  on  her?" 

Edward  smiled  again. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  her  yourself,  Bateman? 
You've  been  in  love  with  her  for  ages.  You're  per- 
fectly suited  to  one  another.  You'll  make  her  very 
happy." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that.    I  can't  bear  it." 

"I  resign  in  your  favour,  Bateman.  You  are  the 
better  man." 

There  was  something  in  Edward's  tone  that  made 
Bateman  look  up  quickly,  but  Edward's  eyes  were 
grave  and  unsmiling.  Bateman  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  He  was  disconcerted.  He  wondered 
whether  Edward  could  possibly  suspect  that  he  had 
come  to  Tahiti  on  a  special  errand.  And  though 
he  knew  it  was  horrible  he  could  not  prevent  the 
exultation  in  his  heart. 

"What  will  you  do  if  Isabel  writes  and  puts  an 
end  to  her  engagement  with  you?"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Survive,"  said  Edward. 

Bateman  was  so  agitated  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
answer. 

"I  wish  you  had  ordinary  clothes  on,"  he  said, 
somewhat  irritably.  "It's  such  a  tremendously  seri- 
ous decision  you're  taking.  That  fantastic  costume 
of  yours  makes  it  seem  terribly  casual." 

"I  assure  you,  I  can  be  just  as  solemn  in  a  pareo 
and  a  wreath  of  roses,  as  in  a  high  hat  and  a  cut- 
away coat." 

Then  another  thought  struck  Bateman. 

"Edward,  it's  not  for  my  sake  you're  doing  this? 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          109 

I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  this  is  going  to  make  a 
tremendous  difference  to  my  future.  You're  not 
sacrificing  yourself  for  me?  I  couldn't  stand  for 
that,  you  know." 

"No,  Bateman,  I  have  learnt  not  to  be  silly  and 
sentimental  here.  I  should  like  you  and  Isabel  to 
be  happy,  but  I  have  not  the  least  wish  to  be  un- 
happy myself." 

The  answer  somewhat  chilled  Bateman.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  little  cynical.  He  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  act  a  noble  part. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  content  to  waste  your 
life  here?  It's  nothing  less  than  suicide.  When 
I  think  of  the  great  hopes  you  had  when  we  left 
college  it  seems  terrible  that  you  should  be  content 
to  be  no  more  than  a  salesman  in  a  cheap-John 
store." 

"Oh,  I'm  only  doing  that  for  the  present,  and  I'm 
gaining  a  great  deal  of  valuable  experience.  I  have 
another  plan  in  my  head.  Arnold  Jackson  has  a 
small  island  in  the  Paumotas,  about  a  thousand 
miles  from  here,  a  ring  of  land  round  a  lagoon.  He's 
planted  coconut  there.  He's  offered  to  give  it  me." 

"Why  should  he  do  that?"  asked  Bateman. 

"Because  if  Isabel  releases  me  I  shall  marry  his 
daughter." 

"You?"  Bateman  was  thunderstruck.  "You 
can't  marry  a  half-caste.  You  wouldn't  be  so  crazy 
as  that." 

"She's  a  good  girl,  and  she  has  a  sweet  and  gentle 
nature.  I  think  she  would  make  me  very  happy.'1 

"Are  you  in  love  with  her?" 


110  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Edward  reflectively. 
"I'm  not  in  love  with  her  as  I  was  in  love  with  Isa- 
bel. I  worshipped  Isabel.  I  thought  she  was  the 
most  wonderful  creature  I  had  ever  seen.  I  was 
not  half  good  enough  for  her.  I  don't  feel  like  that 
with  Eva.  She's  like  a  beautiful  exotic  flower  that 
must  be  sheltered  from  bitter  winds.  I  want  to  pro- 
tect her.  No  one  ever  thought  of  protecting  Isabel. 
I  think  she  loves  me  for  myself  and  not  for  what  I 
may  become.  Whatever  happens  to  me  I  shall  never 
disappoint  her.  She  suits  me." 

Bateman  was  silent. 

"We  must  turn  out  early  in  the  morning,"  said 
Edward  at  last.  "It's  really  about  time  we  went  to 
bed." 

Then  Bateman  spoke  and  his  voice  had  in  it  a 
genuine  distress. 

"I'm  so  bewildered,  I  don't  know  what  to  say. 
I  came  here  because  I  thought  something  was  wrong. 
I  thought  you  hadn't  succeeded  in  what  you  set 
out  to  do  and  were  ashamed  to  come  back  when 
you'd  failed.  I  never  guessed  I  should  be  faced 
with  this.  I'm  so  desperately  sorry,  Edward.  I'm 
so  disappointed.  I  hoped  you  would  do  great  things. 
It's  almost  more  than  I  can  bear  to  think  of  you 
wasting  your  talents  and  your  youth  and  your  chance 
in  this  lamentable  way." 

"Don't  be  grieved,  old  friend,"  said  Edward.  "I 
haven't  failed.  I've  succeeded.  You  can't  think 
with  what  zest  I  look  forward  to  life,  how  full 
it  seems  to  me  and  how  significant.  Sometimes, 
when  you  are  married  to  Isabel,  you  will  think  of  me. 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          111 

I  shall  build  myself  a  house  on  my  coral  island  and 
I  shall  live  there,  looking  after  my  trees — getting 
the  fruit  out  of  the  nuts  in  the  same  old  way  that 
they  have  done  for  unnumbered  years — I  shall  grow 
all  sorts  of  things  in  my  garden,  and  I  shall  fish. 
There  will  be  enough  work  to  keep  me  busy  and 
not  enough  to  make  me  dull.  I  shall  have  my  books 
and  Eva,  children,  I  hope,  and  above  all,  the  infinite 
variety  of  the  sea  and  the  sky,  the  freshness 
of  the  dawn  and  the  beauty  of  the  sunset,  and  the 
rich  magnificence  of  the  night.  I  shall  make  a  garden 
out  of  what  so  short  a  while  ago  was  a  wilderness. 
I  shall  have  created  something.  The  years  will 
pass  insensibly,  and  when  I  am  an  old  man  I  hope 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  look  back  on  a  happy,  simple, 
peaceful  life.  In  my  small  way  I  too  shall  have  lived 
in  beauty.  Do  you  think  it  is  so  little  to  have  enjoyed 
contentment?  We  know  that  it  will  profit  a  man 
little  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  soul. 
I  think  I  have  won  mine." 

Edward  led  him  to  a  room  in  which  there  were 
two  beds  and  he  threw  himself  on  one  of  them.  In 
ten  minutes  Bateman  knew  by  his  regular  breathing, 
peaceful  as  a  child's,  that  Edward  was  asleep.  But 
for  his  part  he  had  no  rest,  he  was  disturbed  in 
mind,  and  it  was  not  till  the  dawn  crept  into  the 
room,  ghostlike  and  silent,  that  he  fell  asleep. 

Bateman  finished  telling  Isabel  his  long  story. 
He  had  hidden  nothing  from  her  except  what  he 
thought  would  wound  her  or  what  made  himself 
ridiculous.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  been 
forced  to  sit  at  dinner  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  round 


112  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

his  head  and  he  did  not  tell  her  that  Edward  was 
prepared  to  marry  her  uncle's  half-caste  daughter 
the  moment  she  set  him  free.  But  perhaps  Isabel 
had  keener  intuitions  than  he  knew,  for  as  he  went 
on  with  his  tale  her  eyes  grew  colder  and  her  lips 
closed  upon  one  another  more  tightly.  Now  and 
then  she  looked  at  him  closely,  and  if  he  had  been 
less  intent  on  his  narrative  he  might  have  wondered 
at  her  expression. 

"What  was  this  girl  like?"  she  asked  when  he  fin- 
ished. "Uncle  Arnold's  daughter.  Would  you  say 
there  was  any  resemblance  between  her  and  me?" 

Bateman  was  surprised  at  the  question. 

"It  never  struck  me.  You  know  I've  never  had 
eyes  for  anyone  but  you  and  I  could  never  think 
that  anyone  was  like  you.  Who  could  resemble 
you?" 

"Was  she  pretty?"  said  Isabel,  smiling  slightly 
at  his  words. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  daresay  some  men  would  say 
she  was  very  beautiful." 

"Well,  it's  of  no  consequence.  I  don't  think  we 
need  give  her  any  more  of  our  attention." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Isabel?"  he  asked 
then. 

Isabel  looked  down  at  the  hand  which  still  bore 
the  ring  Edward  had  given  her  on  their  betrothal. 

"I  wouldn't  let  Edward  break  our  engagement 
because  I  thought  it  would  be  an  incentive  to  him. 
I  wanted  to  be  an  inspiration  to  him.  I  thought 
if  anything  could  enable  him  to  achieve  success  it 
was  the  thought  that  I  loved  him.  I  have  done 


THE  FALL  OF  EDWARD  BARNARD          113 

all  I  could.  It's  hopeless.  It  would  only  be  weak- 
ness on  my  part  not  to  recognise  the  facts.  Poor 
Edward,  he's  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own.  He  was 
a  dear,  nice  fellow,  but  there  was  something  lack- 
ing in  him,  I  suppose  it  was  backbone.  I  hope  he'll 
be  happy." 

She  slipped  the  ring  off  her  finger  and  placed  it 
on  the  table.  Bateman  watched  her  with  a  heart 
beating  so  rapidly  that  he  could  hardly  breathe. 

"You're  wonderful,  Isabel,  you're  simply  wonder- 
ful." 

She  smiled,  and,  standing  up,  held  out  her  hand 
to  him. 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  what  you've  done 
for  me?"  she  said.  "You've  done  me  a  great  serv- 
ice. I  knew  I  could  trust  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it.  She  had  never 
looked  more  beautiful. 

"Oh,  Isabel,  I  would  do  so  much  more  for  you 
than  that.  You  know  that  I  only  ask  to  be  allowed 
to  love  and  serve  you." 

"You're  so  strong,  Bateman,"  she  sighed.  "It 
gives  me  such  a  delicious  feeling  of  confidence." 

"Isabel,  I  adore  you." 

He  hardly  knew  how  the  inspiration  had  come 
to  him,  but  suddenly  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and 
she,  all  unresisting,  smiled  into  his  eyes. 

"Isabel,  you  know  I  wanted  to  marry  you  the 
very  first  day  I  saw  you,"  he  cried  passionately. 

"Then  why  on  earth  didn't  you  ask  me?"  she 
replied. 

She  loved  him.     He  could  hardly  believe  it  was 


THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

true.  She  gave  him  her  lovely  lips  to  kiss.  And  as 
he  held  her  in  his  arms  he  had  a  vision  of  the  works 
of  the  Hunter  Motor  Traction  and  Automobile 
Company  growing  in  size  and  importance  till  they 
covered  a  hundred  acres,  and  of  the  millions  of 
motors  they  would  turn  out,  and  of  the  great  col- 
lection of  pictures  he  would  form  which  should  beat 
anything  they  had  in  New  York.  He  would  wear 
horn  spectacles.  And  she,  with  the  delicious  pres- 
sure of  his  arms  about  her,  sighed  with  happiness, 
for  she  thought  of  the  exquisite  house  she  would 
have,  full  of  antique  furniture,  and  of  the  concerts 
she  would  give,  and  of  the  thes  dansants,  and  the 
dinners  to  which  only  the  most  cultured  people  would 
come.  Bateman  should  wear  horn  spectacles. 
"Poor  Edward,"  she  sighed. 


IV 

Red 

THE  skipper  thrust  his  hand  into  one  of  his 
trouser  pockets  and  with  difficulty,  for  they 
were  not  at  the  sides  but  in  front  and  he  was  a 
portly  man,  pulled  out  a  large  silver  watch.  He 
looked  at  it  and  then  looked  again  at  the  declining 
sun.  The  Kanaka  at  the  wheel  gave  him  a  glance, 
but  did  not  speak.  The  skipper's  eyes  rested  on  the 
island  they  were  approaching.  A  white  line  of  foam 
marked  the  reef.  He  knew  there  was  an  opening 
large  enough  to  get  his  ship  through,  and  when 
they  came  a  little  nearer  he  counted  on  seeing  it. 
They  had  nearly  an  hour  of  daylight  still  before 
them.  In  the  lagoon  the  water  was  deep  and  they 
could  anchor  comfortably.  The  chief  of  the  village 
which  he  could  already  see  among  the  coconut 
trees  was  a  friend  of  the  mate's,  and  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  go  ashore  for  the  night.  The  mate  came 
forward  at  that  minute  and  the  skipper  turned  to 
him. 

"We'll  take  a  bottle  of  booze  along  with  us  and 
get  some  girls  in  to  dance,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  the  opening,"  said  the  mate. 

He  was  a  Kanaka,  a  handsome,  swarthy  fellow, 
with  somewhat  the  look  of  a  later  Roman  emperor, 


116  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

inclined  to  stoutness ;  but  his  face  was  fine  and  clean- 
cut. 

"I'm  dead  sure  there's  one  right  here,"  said  the 
captain,  looking  through  his  glasses.  "I  can't  un- 
derstand why  I  can't  pick  it  up.  Send  one  of  the 
boys  up  the  mast  to  have  a  look." 

The  mate  called  one  of  the  crew  and  gave  him 
the  order.  The  captain  watched  the  Kanaka  climb 
and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  But  the  Kanaka 
shouted  down  that  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  un- 
broken line  of  foam.  The  captain  spoke  Samoan 
like  a  native,  and  he  cursed  him  freely. 

"Shall  he  stay  up  there?"  asked  the  mate. 

"What  the  hell  good  does  that  do?"  answered 
the  captain.  "The  blame  fool  can't  see  worth  a  cent. 
You  bet  your  sweet  life  I'd  find  the  opening  if  I  was 
up  there." 

He  looked  at  the  slender  mast  with  anger.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  a  native  who  had  been  used 
to  climbing  up  coconut  trees  all  his  life.  He  was 
fat  and  heavy. 

"Come  down,"  he  shouted.  "You're  no  more  use 
than  a  dead  dog.  We'll  just  have  to  go  along  the 
reef  till  we  find  the  opening." 

It  was  a  seventy-ton  schooner  with  paraffin  aux- 
iliary, and  it  ran,  when  there  was  no  head  wind, 
between  four  and  five  knots  an  hour.  It  was  a 
bedraggled  object;  it  had  been  painted  white  a  very 
long  time  ago,  but  it  was  now  dirty,  dingy,  and 
mottled.  It  smelt  strongly  of  paraffin  and  of  the 
copra  which  was  its  usual  cargo.  They  were  within 
a  hundred  feet  of  the  reef  now  and  the  captain 


RED  117 

told  the  steersman  to  run  along  it  till  they  came 
to  the  opening.  But  when  they  had  gone  a  couple 
of  miles  he  realised  that  they  had  missed  it.  He 
went  about  and  slowly  worked  back  again.  The 
white  foam  of  the  reef  continued  without  interrup- 
tion and  now  the  sun  was  setting.  With  a  curse 
at  the  stupidity  of  the  crew  the  skipper  resigned 
himself  to  waiting  till  next  morning. 

"Put  her  about,"  he  said.    "I  can't  anchor  here." 

They  went  out  to  sea  a  little  and  presently  it  was 
quite  dark.  They  anchored.  When  the  sail  was 
furled  the  ship  began  to  roll  a  good  deal.  They 
said  in  Apia  that  one  day  she  would  roll  right  over; 
and  the  owner,  a  German-American  who  managed 
one  of  the  largest  stores,  said  that  no  money  was 
big  enough  to  induce  him  to  go  out  in  her.  The 
cook,  a  Chinese  in  white  trousers,  very  dirty  and 
ragged,  and  a  thin  white  tunic,  came  to  say  that 
supper  was  ready,  and  when  the  skipper  went  into 
the  cabin  he  found  the  engineer  already  seated  at 
table.  The  engineer  was  a  long,  lean  man  with  a 
scraggy  neck.  He  was  dressed  in  blue  overalls  and 
a  sleeveless  jersey  which  showed  his  thin  arms  ta- 
tooed  from  elbow  to  wrist. 

"Hell,  having  to  spend  the  night  outside,"  said 
the  skipper. 

The  engineer  did  not  answer,  and  they  ate  their 
supper  in  silence.  The  cabin  was  lit  by  a  dim  oil 
lamp.  When  they  had  eaten  the  canned  apricots 
with  which  the  meal  finished  the  Chink  brought  them 
a  cup  of  tea.  The  skipper  lit  a  cigar  and  went  on 
the  upper  deck.  The  island  now  was  only  a  darker 


118  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

mass  against  the  night.  The  stars  were  very  bright. 
The  only  sound  was  the  ceaseless  breaking  of  the 
surf.  The  skipper  sank  into  a  deck-chair  and 
smoked  idly.  Presently  three  or  four  members  of 
the  crew  came  up  and  sat  down.  One  of  them 
had  a  banjo  and  another  a  concertina.  They  be- 
gan to  play,  and  one  of  them  sang.  The  native 
song  sounded  strange  on  these  instruments.  Then 
to  the  singing  a  couple  began  to  dance.  It  was 
a  barbaric  dance,  savage  and  primeval,  rapid,  with 
quick  movements  of  the  hands  and  feet  and  con- 
tortions of  the  body;  it  was  sensual,  sexual  even,  but 
sexual  without  passion.  It  was  very  animal,  direct, 
weird  without  mystery,  natural  in  short,  and 
one  might  almost  say  childlike.  At  last  they  grew 
tired.  They  stretched  themselves  on  the  deck  and 
slept,  and  all  was  silent.  The  skipper  lifted  him- 
self heavily  out  of  his  chair  and  clambered  down 
the  companion.  He  went  into  his  cabin  and  got  out 
of  his  clothes.  He  climbed  into  his  bunk  and  lay 
there.  He  panted  a  little  in  the  heat  of  the  night. 
But  next  morning,  when  the  dawn  crept  over  the 
tranquil  sea,  the  opening  in  the  reef  which  had  eluded 
them  the  night  before  was  seen  a  little  to  the  east 
of  where  they  lay.  The  schooner  entered  the  la- 
goon. There  was  not  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of 
the  water.  Deep  down  among  the  coral  rocks  you 
saw  little  coloured  fish  swim.  When  he  had  an- 
chored his  ship  the  skipper  ate  his  breakfast  and 
went  on  deck.  The  sun  shone  from  an  unclouded 
sky,  but  in  the  early  morning  the  air  was  grateful 
and  cool.  It  was  Sunday,  and  there  was  a  feeling 


RED  119 

of  quietness,  a  silence  as  though  nature  were  at 
rest,  which  gave  him  a  peculiar  sense  of  comfort. 
He  sat,  looking  at  the  wooded  coast,  and  felt  lazy 
and  well  at  ease.  Presently  a  slow  smile  moved 
his  lips  and  he  threw  the  stump  of  his  cigar  into 
the  water. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  ashore,"  he  said.  "Get  the  boat 
out." 

He  climbed  stiffly  down  the  ladder  and  was  rowed 
to  a  little  cove.  The  coconut  trees  came  down  to 
the  water's  edge,  not  in  rows,  but  spaced  out  wrth 
an  ordered  formality.  They  were  like  a  ballet  of 
spinsters,  elderly  but  flippant,  standing  in  affected 
attitudes  with  the  simpering  graces  of  a  bygone 
age.  He  sauntered  idly  through  them,  along  a 
path  that  could  be  just  seen  winding  its  tortuous 
way,  and  it  led  him  presently  to  a  broad  creek. 
There  was  a  bridge  across  it,  but  a  bridge  con- 
structed of  single  trunks  of  coconut  trees,  a  dozen 
of  them,  placed  end  to  end  and  supported  where 
they  met  by  a  forked  branch  driven  into  the  bed 
of  the  creek.  You  walked  on  a  smooth,  round 
surface,  narrow  and  slippery,  and  there  was  no  sup- 
port for  the  hand.  To  cross  such  a  bridge  re- 
quired sure  feet  and  a  stout  heart.  The  skipper 
hesitated.  But  he  saw  on  the  other  side,  nestling 
among  the  trees,  a  white  man's  house;  he  made  up 
his  mind  and,  rather  gingerly,  began  to  walk.  He 
watched  his  feet  carefully,  and  where  one  trunk 
joined  on  to  the  next  and  there  was  a  difference 
of  level,  he  tottered  a  little.  It  was  with  a  gasp 
o^  relief  that  he  reached  the  last  tree  and  finally 


120  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

set  his  feet  on  the  firm  ground  of  the  other  side. 
He  had  been  so  intent  on  the  difficult  crossing  that 
he  never  noticed  anyone  was  watching  him,  and  it 
was  with  surprise  that  he  heard  himself  spoken  to. 

"It  takes  a  bit  of  nerve  to  cross  these  bridges 
when  you're  not  used  to  them." 

He  looked  up  and  saw  a  man  standing  in  front 
of  him.  He  had  evidently  come  out  of  the  house 
which  he  had  seen. 

"I  saw  you  hesitate,"  the  man  continued,  with  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  "and  I  was  watching  to  see  you 
fall  in." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  the  captain,  who  had  now 
recovered  his  confidence. 

"I've  fallen  in  myself  before  now.  I  remember, 
one  evening  I  came  back  from  shooting,  and  I  fell 
in,  gun  and  all.  Now  I  get  a  boy  to  carry  my  gun 
for  me." 

He  was  a  man  no  longer  young,  with  a  small 
beard,  now  somewhat  grey,  and  a  thin  face.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  singlet,  without  arms,  and  a  pair 
of  duck  trousers.  He  wore  neither  shoes  nor  socks. 
He  spoke  English  with  a  slight  accent. 

"Are  you  Neilson?"  asked  the  skipper. 

"I  am." 

"I've  heard  about  you.  I  thought  you  lived  some- 
wheres  round  here." 

The  skipper  followed  his  host  into  the  little 
bungalow  and  sat  down  heavily  in  the  chair  which 
the  other  motioned  him  to  take.  While  Neilson 
went  out  to  fetch  whisky  and  glasses  he  took  a  look 
round  the  room.  It  filled  him  with  amazement. 


RED  121 

He  had  never  seen  so  many  books.  The  shelves 
reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  on  all  four  walls,  and 
they  were  closely  packed.  There  was  a  grand  pianc 
littered  with  music,  and  a  large  table  on  which  books 
and  magazines  lay  in  disorder.  The  room  made  him 
feel  embarrassed.  He  remembered  that  Neilson 
was  a  queer  fellow.  No  one  knew  very  much  about 
him,  although  he  had  been  in  the  islands  for  so 
many  years,  but  those  who  knew  him  agreed  that 
he  was  queer.  He  was  a  Swede. 

"You've  got  one  big  heap  of  books  here,"  he  said, 
when  Neilson  returned. 

"They  do  no  harm,"  answered  Neilson  with  a 
smile. 

"Have  you  read  them  all?"  asked  the  skipper. 

"Most  of  them." 

"I'm  a  bit  of  a  reader  myself.  I  have  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post  sent  me  regler." 

Neilson  poured  his  visitor  a  good  stiff  glass  of 
whisky  and  gave  him  a  cigar.  The  skipper  volun- 
teered a  little  information. 

"I  got  in  last  night,  but  I  couldn't  find  the  open- 
ing, so  I  had  to  anchor  outside.  I  never  been  this 
run  before,  but  my  people  had  some  stuff  they 
wanted  to  bring  over  here.  Gray,  d'you  know  him?" 

"Yes,  he's  got  a  store  a  little  way  along." 

"Well,  there  was  a  lot  of  canned  stuff  that  he 
wanted  over,  an'  he's  got  some  copra.  They 
thought  I  might  just  as  well  come  over  as  lie  idle 
at  Apia.  I  run  between  Apia  and  Pago-Pago  mostly, 
but  they've  got  smallpox  there  just  now,  and  there's 
nothing  stirring." 


122  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

He  took  a  drink  of  his  whisky  and  lit  a  cigar. 
He  was  a  taciturn  man,  but  there  was  something 
in  Neilson  that  made  him  nervous,  and  his  nervous- 
ness made  him  talk.  The  Swede  was  looking  at  him 
with  large  dark  eyes  in  which  there  was  an  expres- 
sion of  faint  amusement. 

"This  is  a  tidy  little  place  you've  got  here." 

"I've  done  my  best  with  it." 

"You  must  do  pretty  well  with  your  trees.  They 
look  fine.  With  copra  at  the  price  it  is  now.  I 
had  a  bit  of  a  plantation  myself  once,  in  Upolu 
it  was,  but  I  had  to  sell  it." 

He  looked  round  the  room  again,  where  all  those 
books  gave  him  a  feeling  of  something  incompre- 
hensible and  hostile. 

"I  guess  you  must  find  it  a  bit  lonesome  here 
though,"  he  said. 

"I've  got  used  to  it.  I've  been  here  for  twenty- 
five  years." 

Now  the  captain  could  think  of  nothing  more  to 
say,  and  he  smoked  in  silence.  Neilson  had  ap- 
parently no  wish  to  break  it.  He  looked  at  his 
guest  with  a  meditative  eye.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
more  than  six  feet  high,  and  very  stout.  His  face 
was  red  and  blotchy,  with  a  network  of  little  pur- 
ple veins  on  the  cheeks,  and  his  features  were  sunk 
into  its  fatness.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot.  His 
neck  was  buried  in  rolls  of  fat.  But  for  a  fringe 
of  long  curly  hair,  nearly  white,  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  he  was  quite  bald;  and  that  immense,  shiny 
surface  of  forehead,  which  might  have  given  him 
a  false  look  of  intelligence,  on  the  contrary  gave 


RED 

him  one  of  peculiar  imbecility.  He  wore  a  blue 
flannel  shirt,  open  at  the  neck  and  showing  his  fat 
chest  covered  with  a  mat  of  reddish  hair,  and  a  very 
old  pair  of  blue  serge  trousers.  He  sat  in  his  chair 
in  a  heavy  ungainly  attitude,  his  great  belly  thrust 
forward  and  his  fat  legs  uncrossed.  All  elasticity 
had  gone  from  his  limbs.  Neilson  wondered  idly 
what  sort  of  man  he  had  been  in  his  youth.  It 
was  almost  impossible  to  imagine  that  this  creature 
of  vast  bulk  had  ever  been  a  boy  who  ran  about. 
The  skipper  finished  his  whisky,  and  Neilson  pushed 
the  bottle  towards  him. 

"Help  yourself." 

The  skipper  leaned  forward  and  with  his  great 
hand  seized  it. 

"And  how  come  you  in  these  parts  anyways?" 
he  said. 

"Oh,  I  came  out  to  the  islands  for  my  health. 
My  lungs  were  bad  and  they  said  I  hadn't  a  year 
to  live.  You  see  they  were  wrong." 

"I  meant,  how  come  you  to  settle  down  right 
here?" 

"I  am  a  sentimentalist." 

"Oh  I" 

Neilson  knew  that  the  skipper  had  not  an  idea 
what  he  meant,  and  he  looked  at  him  with  an  ironical 
twinkle  in  his  dark  eyes.  Perhaps  just  because  the 
skipper  was  so  gross  and  dull  a  man  the  whim  seized 
him  to  talk  further. 

"You  were  too  busy  keeping  your  balance  to  no- 
tice, when  you  crossed  the  bridge,  but  this  spot  is 
generally  considered  rather  pretty." 


124  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"It's  a  cute  little  house  you've  got  here." 
"Ah,  that  wasn't  here  when  I  first  came.  There 
was  a  native  hut,  with  its  beehive  roof  and  its  pil- 
lars, overshadowed  by  a  great  tree  with  red  flowers; 
and  the  croton  bushes,  their  leaves  yellow  and  red 
and  golden,  made  a  pied  fence  around  it.  And 
then  all  about  were  the  coconut  trees,  as  fanciful 
as  women,  and  as  vain.  They  stood  at  the  water's 
edge  and  spent  all  day  looking  at  their  reflections. 
I  was  a  young  man  then — Good  Heavens,  it's  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago — and  I  wanted  to  enjoy 
all  the  loveliness  of  the  world  in  the  short  time  al- 
lotted to  me  before  I  passed  into  the  darkness.  I 
thought  it  was  the  most  beautiful  spot  I  had  ever 
seen.  The  first  time  I  saw  it  I  had  a  catch  at  my 
heart,  and  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  cry.  I  wasn't 
more  than  twenty-five,  and  though  I  put  the  best 
face  I  could  on  it,  I  didn't  want  to  die.  And  some- 
how it  seemed  to  me  that  the  very  beauty  of  this 
place  made  it  easier  for  me  to  accept  my  fate.  I 
felt  when  I  came  here  that  all  my  past  life  had 
fallen  away,  Stockholm  and  its  University,  and 
then  Bonn:  it  all  seemed  the  life  of  somebody  else, 
as  though  now  at  last  I  had  achieved  the  reality 
which  our  doctors  of  philosophy — I  am  one  myself, 
you  know — had  discussed  so  much.  'A  year,'  I  cried 
to  myself.  'I  have  a  year.  I  will  spend  it  here 
and  then  I  am  content  to  die.' 

"We  are  foolish  and  sentimental  and  melodra- 
matic at  twenty-five,  but  if  we  weren't  perhaps  we 
should  be  less  wise  at  fifty." 


RED  125 

**Now  drink,  my  friend.  Don't  let  the  nonsense 
I  talk  interfere  with  you." 

He  waved  his  thin  hand  towards  the  bottle,  and 
the  skipper  finished  what  remained  in  his  glass. 

"You  ain't  drinking  nothin',"  he  said,  reaching 
for  the  whisky. 

"I  am  of  a  sober  habit,"  smiled  the  Swede.  "I 
intoxicate  myself  in  ways  which  I  fancy  are  more 
subtle.  But  perhaps  that  is  only  vanity.  Anyhow, 
the  effects  are  more  lasting  and  the  results  less 
deleterious." 

"They  say  there's  a  deal  of  cocaine  taken  in  the 
States  now,"  said  the  captain. 

Neilson  chuckled. 

"But  I  do  not  see  a  white  man  often,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  for  once  I  don't  think  a  drop  of  whisky 
can  do  me  any  harm." 

He  poured  himself  out  a  little,  added  some  soda, 
and  took  a  sip. 

"And  presently  I  found  out  why  the  spot  had 
such  an  unearthly  loveliness.  Here  love  had  tar- 
ried for  a  moment  like  a  migrant  bird  that  happens 
on  a  ship  in  mid-ocean  and  for  a  little  while  folds 
its  tired  wings.  The  fragrance  of  a  beautiful  pas- 
sion hovered  over  it  like  the  fragrance  of  hawthorn 
in  May  in  the  meadows  of  my  home.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  places  where  men  have  loved  or  suf- 
fered keep  about  them  always  some  faint  aroma 
of  something  that  has  not  wholly  died.  It  is  as 
though  they  had  acquired  a  spiritual  significance 
which  mysteriously  affects  those  who  pass.  I  wish 
I  could  make  myself  clear."  He  smiled  a  little. 


196  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Though  I  cannot  imagine  that  if  I  did  you  would 

understand." 

He  paused. 

"I  think  this  place  was  beautiful  because  here  I 
had  been  loved  beautifully."  And  now  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "But  perhaps  it  is  only  that  my  aes- 
thetic sense  is  gratified  by  the  happy  conjunction 
of  young  love  and  a  suitable  setting." 

Even  a  man  less  thick-witted  than  the  skipper 
might  have  been  forgiven  if  he  were  bewildered  by 
Neilson's  words.  For  he  seemed  faintly  to  laugh 
at  what  he  said.  It  was  as  though  he  spoke  from 
emotion  which  his  intellect  found  ridiculous.  He 
had  said  himself  that  he  was  a  sentimentalist,  and 
when  sentimentality  is  joined  with  scepticism  there 
is  often  the  devil  to  pay. 

He  was  silent  for  an  instant  and  looked  at  the 
captain  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  a  sudden  per- 
plexity. 

"You  know,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I've  seen 
you  before  somewhere  or  other,"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't  say  as  I  remember  you,"  returned 
the  skipper. 

"I  have  a  curious  feeling  as  though  your  face 
were  familiar  to  me.  It's  been  puzzling  me  for 
some  time.  But  I  can't  situate  my  recollection  in 
any  place  or  at  any  time." 

The  skipper  massively  shrugged  his  heavy  shoul- 
ders. 

"It's  thirty  years  since  I  first  come  to  the  islands. 
A  man  can't  figure  on  remembering  all  the  folk 
he  meets  in  a  while  like  that." 


RED  127 

The  Swede  shook  his  head. 

"You  know  how  one  sometimes  has  the  feeling 
that  a  place  one  has  never  been  to  before  is  strangely 
familiar.  That's  how  I  seem  to  see  you."  He  gave 
a  whimsical  smile.  "Perhaps  I  knew  you  in  some 
past  existence.  Perhaps,  perhaps  you  were  the  mas- 
ter of  a  galley  in  ancient  Rome  and  I  was  a  slave 
at  the  oar.  Thirty  years  have  you  been  here?" 

"Every  bit  of  thirty  years." 

"I  wonder  if  you  knew  a  man  called  Red?" 

"Red?" 

"That  is  the  only  name  I've  ever  known  him  by. 
I  never  knew  him  personally.  I  never  even  set  eyes 
on  him.  And  yet  I  seem  to  see  him  more  clearly 
than  many  men,  my  brothers,  for  instance,  with 
whom  I  passed  my  daily  life  for  many  years.  He 
lives  in  my  imagination  with  the  distinctness  of 
a  Paolo  Malatesta  or  a  Romeo.  But  I  daresay 
you  have  never  read  Dante  or  Shakespeare?" 

"I  can't  say  as  I  have,"  said  the  captain. 

Neilson,  smoking  a  cigar,  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  looked  vacantly  at  the  ring  of  smoke  which 
floated  in  the  still  air.  A  smile  played  on  his  lips, 
but  his  eyes  were  grave.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
captain.  There  was  in  his  gross  obesity  something 
extraordinarily  repellent.  He  had  the  plethoric  self- 
satisfaction  of  the  very  fat.  It  was  an  outrage.  It 
set  Neilson's  nerves  on  edge.  But  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  man  before  him  and  the  man  he  had  in 
mind  was  pleasant. 

"It  appears  that  Red  was  the  most  comely  thing 
you  ever  saw.  I've  talked  to  quite  a  number  of 


128  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

people  who  knew  him  in  those  days,  white  men, 
and  they  all  agree  that  the  first  time  you  saw  him 
his  beauty  just  took  your  breath  away.  They  called 
him  Red  on  account  of  his  flaming  hair.  It  had  a 
natural  wave  and  he  wore  it  long.  It  must  have 
been  of  that  wonderful  colour  that  the  pre-Raphael- 
ites  raved  over.  I  don't  think  he  was  vain  of  it, 
he  was  much  too  ingenuous  for  that,  but  no  one 
could  have  blamed  him  if  he  had  been.  He  was  tall, 
six  feet  and  an  inch  or  two — in  the  native  house 
that  used  to  stand  here  was  the  mark  of  his  height 
cut  with  a  knife  on  the  central  trunk  that  supported 
the  roof — and  he  was  made  like  a  Greek  god,  broad 
in  the  shoulders  and  thin  in  the  flanks;  he  was  like 
Apollo,  with  just  that  soft  roundness  which  Praxit- 
eles gave  him,  and  that  suave,  feminine  grace  which 
has  in  it  something  troubling  and  mysterious.  His 
skin  was  dazzling  white,  milky,  like  satin;  his  skin 
was  like  a  woman's." 

"I  had  kind  of  a  white  skin  myself  when  I  was 
a  kiddie,"  said  the  skipper,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
bloodshot  eyes. 

But  Neilson  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  was 
telling  his  story  now  and  interruption  made  him  im- 
patient. 

"And  his  face  was  just  as  beautiful  as  his  body. 
He  had  large  blue  eyes,  very  dark,  so  that  some 
say  they  were  black,  and  unlike  most  red-haired 
people  he  had  dark  eyebrows  and  long  dark  lashes. 
His  features  were  perfectly  regular  and  his  mouth 
was  like  a  scarlet  wound.  He  was  twenty." 

On  these  words  the  Swede  stopped  with  a  certain 


RED  129 

sense  of  the  dramatic.     He  took  a  sip  of  whisky. 

"He  was  unique.  There  never  was  anyone  more 
beautiful.  There  was  no  more  reason  for  him  than 
for  a  wonderful  blossom  to  flower  on  a  wild  plant. 
He  was  a  happy  accident  of  nature. 

"One  day  he  landed  at  that  cove  into  which  you 
must  have  put  this  morning.  He  was  an  American 
sailor,  and  he  had  deserted  from  a  man-of-war  in 
Apia.  He  had  induced  some  good-humoured  native 
to  give  him  a  passage  on  a  cutter  that  happened  to 
be  sailing  from  Apia  to  Safoto,  and  he  had  been 
put  ashore  here  in  a  dugout.  I  do  not  know  why 
he  deserted.  Perhaps  life  on  a  man-of-war  with 
its  restrictions  irked  him,  perhaps  he  was  in  trouble, 
and  perhaps  it  was  the  South  Seas  and  these  ro- 
mantic islands  that  got  into  his  bones.  Every  now 
and  then  they  take  a  man  strangely,  and  he  finds 
himself  like  a  fly  in  a  spider's  web.  It  may  be  that 
there  was  a  softness  of  fibre  in  him,  and  these  green 
hills  with  their  soft  airs,  this  blue  sea,  took  the 
northern  strength  from  him  as  Delilah  took  the 
Nazarite's.  Anyhow,  he  wanted  to  hide  himself, 
and  he  thought  he  would  be  safe  in  this  secluded 
nook  till  his  ship  had  sailed  from  Samoa. 

"There  was  a  native  hut  at  the  cove  and  as  he 
stood  there,  wondering  where  exactly  he  should  turn 
his  steps,  a  young  girl  came  out  and  invited  him  to 
enter.  He  knew  scarcely  two  words  of  the  native 
tongue  and  she  as  little  English.  But  he  under- 
stood well  enough  what  her  smiles  meant,  and  her 
pretty  gestures,  and  he  followed  her.  He  sat  down 
on  a  mat  and  she  gave  him  slices  of  pineapple  to 


1*0  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

cat.  I  can  speak  of  Red  only  from  hearsay,  but 
I  saw  the  girl  three  years  after  he  first  met  her, 
and  she  was  scarcely  nineteen  then.  You  cannot 
imagine  how  exquisite  she  was.  She  had  the  pas- 
sionate grace  of  the  hibiscus  and  the  rich  colour. 
She  was  rather  tall,  slim,  with  the  delicate  features 
of  her  race,  and  large  eyes  like  pools  of  still  water 
under  the  palm  trees;  her  hair,  black  and  curling, 
fell  down  her  back,  and  she  wore  a  wreath  of  scented 
flowers.  Her  hands  were  lovely.  They  were  so 
small,  so  exquisitely  formed,  they  gave  your  heart- 
strings a  wrench.  And  m  those  days  she  laughed 
easily.  Her  smile  was  so  delightful  that  it  made 
your  knees  shake.  Her  skin  was  like  a  field  of  ripe 
corn  on  a  summer  day.  Good  Heavens,  how  can  I 
describe  her?  She  was  too  beautiful  to  be  real. 

"And  these  two  young  things,  she  was  sixteen  and 
he  was  twenty,  fell  in  love  with  one  another  at  first 
sight.  That  is  the  real  love,  not  the  love  that  comes 
from  sympathy,  common  interests,  or  intellectual 
community,  but  love  pure  and  simple.  That  is  the 
love  that  Adam  felt  for  Eve  when  he  awoke  and 
found  her  in  the  garden  gazing  at  him  with  dewy 
eyes.  That  is  the  love  that  draws  the  beasts  to 
one  another,  and  the  Gods.  That  is  the  love  that 
makes  the  world  a  miracle.  That  is  the  love  which 
gives  life  its  pregnant  meaning.  You  have  never 
heard  of  the  wise,  cynical  French  duke  who  said 
that  with  two  lovers  there  is  always  one  who  loves 
and  one  who  lets  himself  be  loved;  it  is  a  bitter 
truth  to  which  most  of  us  have  to  resign  ourselves; 
but  now  and  then  there  are  two  who  love  and  two 


RED  131 

who  let  themselves  be  loved.  Then  one  might  fancy 
that  the  sun  stands  still  as  it  stood  when  Joshua 
prayed  to  the  God  of  Israel. 

"And  even  now  after  all  these  years,  when  I 
think  of  these  two,  so  young,  so  fair,  so  simple, 
and  of  their  love,  I  feel  a  pang.  It  tears  my  heart 
just  as  my  heart  is  torn  when  on  certain  nights  I 
watch  the  full  moon  shining  on  the  lagoon  from 
an  unclouded  sky.  There  is  always  pain  in  the  con- 
templation of  perfect  beauty. 

"They  were  children.  She  was  good  and  sweet 
and  kind.  I  know  nothing  of  him,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  then  at  all  events  he  was  ingenuous  and 
frank.  I  like  to  think  that  his  soul  was  as  comely 
as  his  body.  But  I  daresay  he  had  no  more  soul 
than  the  creatures  of  the  woods  and  forests  who 
made  pipes  from  reeds  and  bathed  in  the  mountain 
streams  when  the  world  was  young,  and  you  might 
catch  sight  of  little  fawns  galloping  through  the 
glade  on  the  back  of  a  bearded  centaur.  A  soul 
is  a  troublesome  possession  and  when  man  developed 
it  he  lost  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

"Well,  when  Red  came  to  the  island  it  had  re- 
cently been  visited  by  one  of  those  epidemics  which 
the  white  man  has  brought  to  the  South  Seas,  and 
one  third  of  the  inhabitants  had  died.  It  seems  that 
the  girl  had  lost  all  her  near  kin  and  she  lived  now 
in  the  house  of  distant  cousins.  The  household  con- 
sisted of  two  ancient  crones,  bowed  and  wrinkled, 
two  younger  women,  and  a  man  and  a  boy.  For 
a  few  days  he  stayed  there.  But  perhaps  he  felt 
himself  too  near  the  shore,  with  the  possibility  that 


1S2  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

he  might  fall  in  with  white  men  who  would  reveal 
his  hiding-place;  perhaps  the  lovers  could  not  bear 
that  the  company  of  others  should  rob  them  for  an 
instant  of  the  delight  of  being  together.  One  morn- 
ing they  set  out,  the  pair  of  them,  with  the  few  things 
that  belonged  to  the  girl,  and  walked  along  a  grassy 
path  under  the  coconuts,  till  they  came  to  the  creek 
you  see.  They  had  to  cross  the  bridge  you  crossed, 
and  the  girl  laughed  gleefully  because  he  was  afraid. 
She  held  his  hand  till  they  came  to  the  end  of  the 
first  tree,  and  then  his  courage  failed  him  and  he 
had  to  go  back.  He  was  obliged  to  take  off  all 
his  clothes  before  he  could  risk  it,  and  she  carried 
them  over  for  him  on  her  head.  They  settled  down 
in  the  empty  hut  that  stood  here.  Whether  she 
had  any  rights  over  it  (land  tenure  is  a  compli- 
cated business  in  the  islands),  or  whether  the  owner 
had  died  during  the  epidemic,  I  do  not  know,  but 
anyhow  no  one  questioned  them,  and  they  took 
possession.  Their  furniture  consisted  of  a  couple 
of  grass-mats  on  which  they  slept,  a  fragment  of 
looking-glass,  and  a  bowl  or  two.  In  this  pleasant 
land  that  is  enough  to  start  housekeeping  on. 

"They  say  that  happy  people  have  no  history,  and 
certainly  a  happy  love  has  none.  They  did  nothing 
all  day  long  and  yet  the  days  seemed  all  too  short. 
The  girl  had  a  native  name,  but  Red  called  her 
Sally.  He  picked  up  the  easy  language  very  quickly, 
and  he  used  to  lie  on  the  mat  for  hours  while  she 
chattered  gaily  to  him.  He  was  a  silent  fellow, 
and  perhaps  his  mind  was  lethargic.  He  smoked 
incessantly  the  cigarettes  which  she  made  him  out 


RED  133 

of  the  native  tobacco  and  pandanus  leaf,  and  he 
watched  her  while  with  deft  fingers  she  made  grass 
mats.  Often  natives  would  come  in  and  tell  long 
stories  of  the  old  days  when  the  island  was  dis- 
turbed by  tribal  wars.  Sometimes  he  would  go  fish- 
ing on  the  reef,  and  bring  home  a  basket  full  of 
coloured  fish.  Sometimes  at  night  he  would  go  out 
with  a  lantern  to  catch  lobster.  There  were  plan- 
tains round  the  hut  and  Sally  would  roast  them 
for  their  frugal  meal.  She  knew  how  to  make  de- 
licious messes  from  coconuts,  and  the  breadfruit 
tree  by  the  side  of  the  creek  gave  them  its  fruit. 
On  feast-days  they  killed  a  little  pig  and  cooked  it 
on  hot  stones.  They  bathed  together  in  the  creek; 
and  in  the  evening  they  went  down  to  the  lagoon 
and  paddled  about  in  a  dugout,  with  its  great  out- 
rigger. The  sea  was  deep  blue,  wine-coloured  at 
sundown,  like  the  sea  of  Homeric  Greece;  but  in 
the  lagoon  the  colour  had  an  infinite  variety,  aqua- 
marine and  amethyst  and  emerald;  and  the  setting 
sun  turned  it  for  a  short  moment  to  liquid  gold. 
Then  there  was  the  colour  of  the  coral,  brown,  white, 
pink,  red,  purple ;  and  the  shapes  it  took  were  mar- 
vellous. It  was  like  a  magic  garden,  and  the  hurry- 
ing fish  were  like  butterflies.  It  strangely  lacked 
reality.  Among  the  coral  were  pools  with  a  floor  of 
white  sand  and  here,  where  the  water  was  dazzling 
clear,  it  was  very  good  to  bathe.  Then,  cool  and 
happy,  they  wandered  back  in  the  gloaming  over  the 
soft  grass  road  to  the  creek,  walking  hand  in  hand, 
and  now  the  mynah  birds  filled  the  coconut  trees 
with  their  clamour.  And  then  the  night,  with  that 


184  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

great  sky  shining  with  gold,  that  seemed  to  stretch 
more  widely  than  the  skies  of  Europe,  and  the  soft 
airs  that  blew  gently  through  the  op«n  hut,  the  long 
night  again  was  all  too  short.  She  was  sixteen  and 
he  was  barely  twenty.  The  dawn  crept  in  among  the 
wooden  pillars  of  the  hut  and  looked  at  those  lovely 
children  sleeping  in  one  another's  arms.  The  sun  hid 
behind  the  great  tattered  leaves  of  the  plantains  so 
that  it  might  not  disturb  them,  and  then,  with  play- 
ful malice,  shot  a  golden  ray,  like  the  outstretched 
paw  of  a  Persian  cat,  on  their  faces.  They  opened 
their  sleepy  eyes  and  they  smiled  to  welcome  an- 
other day.  The  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  and 
a  year  passed.  They  seemed  to  love  one  another 
as — I  hesitate  to  say  passionately,  for  passion  has 
in  it  always  a  shade  of  sadness,  a  touch  of  bitterness 
or  anguish,  but  as  whole  heartedly,  as  simply  and 
naturally  as  on  that  first  day  on  which,  meeting, 
they  had  recognised  that  a  god  wa»  in  them. 

"If  you  had  asked  them  I  have  no  doubt  that  they 
would  have  thought  it  impossible  to  suppose  their 
love  could  ever  cease.  Do  we  not  know  that  the 
essential  element  of  love  is  a  belief  in  its  own  eter- 
nity? And  yet  perhaps  in  Red  there  was  already 
a  very  little  seed,  unknown  to  himself  and  unsus- 
pected by  the  girl,  which  would  in  time  have  grown 
to  weariness.  For  one  day  one  of  the  natives  from 
the  cove  told  them  that  some  way  down  the  coast 
at  the  anchorage  was  a  British  whaling-ship. 

"  'Gee,'  he  said,  'I  wonder  if  I  could  make  a  trade 
of  some  nuts  and  plantains  for  a  pound  or  two  of 
tobacco.' 


RED  135 

"The  pandanus  cigarettes  that  Sally  made  him 
with  untiring  hands  were  strong  and  pleasant  enough 
to  smoke,  but  they  left  him  unsatisfied;  and  he 
yearned  on  a  sudden  for  real  tobacco,  hard,  rank, 
and  pungent.  He  had  not  smoked  a  pipe  for  many 
months.  His  mouth  watered  at  the  thought  of  it. 
One  would  have  thought  some  premonition  of  harm 
would  have  made  Sally  seek  to  dissuade  him,  but 
love  possessed  her  so  completely  that  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  any  power  on  earth  could  take  him 
from  her.  They  went  up  into  the  hills  together  and 
gathered  a  great  basket  of  wild  oranges,  green,  but 
sweet  and  juicy;  and  they  picked  plantains  from 
around  the  hut,  and  coconuts  from  their  trees,  and 
breadfruit  and  mangoes;  and  they  carried  them  down 
to  the  cove.  They  loaded  the  unstable  canoe  with 
them,  and  Red  and  the  native  boy  who  had  brought 
them  the  news  of  the  ship  paddled  along  outside  the 
reef. 

"It  was  the  last  time  she  erer  saw  him. 

"Next  day  the  boy  came  back  alone.  He  was  all 
in  tears.  This  is  the  story  he  told.  When  after 
their  long  paddle  they  reached  the  ship  and  Red 
hailed  it,  a  white  man  looked  over  the  side  and  told 
them  to  come  on  board.  They  took  the  fruit  they 
had  brought  with  them  and  Red  piled  it  up  on  the 
deck.  The  white  man  and  he  began  to  talk,  and 
they  seemed  to  come  to  some  agreement.  One  of 
them  went  below  and  brought  up  tobacco.  Red 
took  some  at  once  and  lit  a  pipe.  The  boy  imitated 
the  zest  with  which  he  blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke 
from  his  mouth.  Then  they  said  something  to  him 


136  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  he  went  into  the  cabin.  Through  the  open 
door  the  boy,  watching  curiously,  saw  a  bottle 
brought  out  and  glasses.  Red  drank  and  smoked. 
They  seemed  to  ask  him  something,  for  he  shook 
his  head  and  laughed.  The  man,  the  first  man  who 
had  spoken  to  them,  laughed  too,  and  he  filled  Red's 
glass  once  more.  They  went  on  talking  and  drink- 
ing, and  presently,  growing  tired  of  watching  a  sight 
that  meant  nothing  to  him,  the  boy  curled  himself 
up  on  the  deck  and  slept.  He  was  awakened  by  a 
kick;  and,  jumping  to  his  feet,  he  saw  that  the  ship 
was  slowly  sailing  out  of  the  lagoon.  He  caught 
sight  of  Red  seated  at  the  table,  with  his  head  rest- 
ing heavily  on  his  arms,  fast  asleep.  He  made  a 
movement  towards  him,  intending  to  wake  him,  but 
a  rough  hand  seized  his  arm,  and  a  man,  with  a 
scowl  and  words  which  he  did  not  understand, 
pointed  to  the  side.  He  shouted  to  Red,  but  in  a 
moment  he  was  seized  and  flung  overboard.  Help- 
less, he  swam  round  to  his  canoe  which  was  drifting 
a  little  way  off,  and  pushed  it  on  to  the  reef.  He 
climbed  in  and,  sobbing  all  the  way,  paddled  back  to 
shore. 

"What  had  happened  was  obvious  enough.  The 
whaler,  by  desertion  or  sickness,  was  short  of  hands, 
and  the  captain  wrhen  Red  came  aboard  had  asked 
him  to  sign  on ;  on  his  refusal  he  had  made  him  drunk 
and  kidnapped  him. 

"Sally  was  beside  herself  with  grief.  For  three 
days  she  screamed  and  cried.  The  natives  did  what 
they  could  to  comfort  her,  but  she  would  not  be 
comforted.  She  would  not  eat.  And  then,  ex- 


RED  137 

hausted,  she  sank  into  a  sullen  apathy.  She  spent 
long  days  at  the  cove,  watching  the  lagoon,  in  the 
vain  hope  that  Red  somehow  or  other  would  man- 
age to  escape.  She  sat  on  the  white  sand,  hour  after 
hour,  with  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  and 
at  night  dragged  herself  wearily  back  across  the 
creek  to  the  little  hut  where  she  had  been  happy. 
The  people  with  whom  she  had  lived  before  Red 
came  to  the  island  wished  her  to  return  to  them, 
but  she  would  not;  she  was  convinced  that  Red 
would  come  back,  and  she  wanted  him  to  find  her 
where  he  had  left  her.  Four  months  later  she  was 
delivered  of  a  still-born  child,  and  the  old  woman 
who  had  come  to  help  her  through  her  confinement 
remained  with  her  in  the  hut.  All  joy  was  taken 
from  her  life.  If  her  anguish  with  time  became  less 
intolerable  it  was  replaced  by  a  settled  melancholy. 
You  would  not  have  thought  that  among  these  peo- 
ple, whose  emotions,  though  so  violent,  are  very 
transient,  a  woman  could  be  found  capable  of  so 
enduring  a  passion.  She  never  lost  the  profound 
conviction  that  sooner  or  later  Red  would  come  back. 
She  watched  for  him,  and  every  time  someone 
crossed  this  slender  little  bridge  of  coconut  trees 
she  looked.  It  might  at  last  be  he." 

Neilson  stopped  talking  and  gave  a  faint  sigh. 

"And  what  happened  to  her  in  the  end?"  asked 
ihe  skipper. 

Neilson  smiled  bitterly. 

"Oh,  three  years  afterwards  she  took  up  with  an- 
other white  man." 

The  skipper  gave  a  fat,  cynical  chuckle. 


188  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"That's  generally  what  happens  to  them,"  he 
said. 

The  Swede  shot  him  a  look  of  hatred.  He  did 
not  know  why  that  gross,  obese  man  excited  in  him 
so  violent  a  repulsion.  But  his  thoughts  wandered 
and  he  found  his  mind  filled  with  memories  of  the 
past.  He  went  back  five  and  twenty  years.  It  was 
when  he  first  came  to  the  island,  weary  of  Apia, 
with  its  heavy  drinking,  its  gambling  and  coarse  sen- 
suality, a  sick  man,  trying  to  resign  himself  to  the 
loss  of  the  career  which  had  fired  his  imagination 
with  ambitious  thoughts.  He  set  behind  him  reso- 
lutely all  his  hopes  of  making  a  great  name  for  him- 
self and  strove  to  content  himself  with  the  few  poor 
months  of  careful  life  which  was  all  that  he  could 
count  on.  He  was  boarding  with  a  half-caste  trader 
who  had  a  store  a  couple  of  miles  along  the  coast 
at  the  edge  of  a  native  village;  and  one  day,  wan- 
dering aimlessly  along  the  grassy  paths  of  the  coco- 
nut groves,  he  had  come  upon  the  hut  in  which  Sally 
lived.  The  beauty  of  the  spot  had  filled  him  with 
a  rapture  so  great  that  it  was  almost  painful,  and 
then  he  had  seen  Sally.  She  was  the  loveliest  crea- 
ture he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  sadness  in  those  dark, 
magnificent  eyes  of  hers  affected  him  strangely.  The 
Kanakas  were  a  handsome  race,  and  beauty  was  not 
rare  among  them,  but  it  was  the  beauty  of  shapely 
animals.  It  was  empty.  But  those  tragic  eyes  were 
dark  with  mystery,  and  you  felt  in  them  the  bitter 
complexity  of  the  groping,  human  soul.  The  trader 
told  him  the  story  and  it  moved  him. 


RED  139 

"Do  you  think  he'll  ever  come  back?"  asked  Neil- 
son. 

"No  fear.  Why,  it'll  be  a  couple  of  years  before 
the  ship  is  paid  off,  and  by  then  he'll  have  forgotten 
all  about  her.  I  bet  he  was  pretty  mad  when  he 
woke  up  and  found  he'd  been  shanghaied,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  but  he  wanted  to  fight  somebody. 
But  he'd  got  to  grin  and  bear  it,  and  I  guess  in 
a  month  he  was  thinking  it  the  best  thing  that  had 
ever  happened  to  him  that  he  got  away  from  the 
island/' 

But  Neilson  could  not  get  the  story  out  of  his 
head.  Perhaps  because  he  was  sick  and  weakly,  the 
radiant  health  of  Red  appealed  to  his  imagination. 
Himself  an  ugly  man,  insignificant  of  appearance, 
he  prized  very  highly  comeliness  in  others.  He  had 
never  been  passionately  in  love,  and  certainly  he  had 
never  been  passionately  loved.  The  mutual  attrac- 
tion of  those  two  young  things  gave  him  a  singular 
delight.  It  had  the  ineffable  beauty  of  the  Abso- 
lute. He  went  again  to  the  little  hut  by  the  creek. 
He  had  a  gift  for  languages  and  an  energetic  mind, 
accustomed  to  work,  and  he  had  already  given  much 
time  to  the  study  of  the  local  tongue.  Old  habit 
was  strong  in  him  and  he  was  gathering  together 
material  for  a  paper  on  the  Samoan  speech.  The 
old  crone  who  shared  the  hut  with  Sally  invited  him 
to  come  in  and  sit  down.  She  gave  him  kava  to 
drink  and  cigarettes  to  smoke.  She  was  glad  to 
have  someone  to  chat  with  and  while  she  talked  he 
looked  at  Sally.  She  reminded  him  of  the  Psyche 
in  the  museum  at  Naples.  Her  features  had  the 


140  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

same  clear  purity  of  line,  and  though  she  had  borne 
a  child  she  had  still  a  virginal  aspect. 

It  was  not  till  he  had  seen  her  two  or  three  times 
that  he  induced  her  to  speak.  Then  it  was  only  to 
ask  him  if  he  had  seen  in  Apia  a  man  called  Red. 
Two  years  had  passed  since  his  disappearance,  but 
it  was  plain  that  she  still  thought  of  him  incessantly. 

It  did  not  take  Neilson  long  to  discover  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her.  It  was  only  by  an  effort  of 
will  now  that  he  prevented  himself  from  going  every 
day  to  the  creek,  and  when  he  was  not  with  Sally 
his  thoughts  were.  At  first,  looking  upon  himself 
as  a  dying  man,  he  asked  only  to  look  at  her,  and 
occasionally  hear  her  speak,  and  his  love  gave  him 
a  wonderful  happiness.  He  exulted  in  its  purity. 
He  wanted  nothing  from  her  but  the  opportunity  to 
weave  around  her  graceful  person  a  web  of  beautiful 
fancies.  But  the  open  air,  the  equable  temperature, 
the  rest,  the  simple  fare,  began  to  have  an  unex- 
pected effect  on  his  health.  His  temperature  did 
not  soar  at  night  to  such  alarming  heights,  he 
coughed  less  and  began  to  put  on  weight;  six  months 
passed  without  his  having  a  haemorrhage ;  and  on  a 
sudden  he  saw  the  possibility  that  he  might  live. 
He  had  studied  his  disease  carefully,  and  the  hope 
dawned  upon  him  that  with  great  care  he  might 
arrest  its  course.  It  exhilarated  him  to  look  for- 
ward once  more  to  the  future.  He  made  plans.  It 
was  evident  that  any  active  life  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, but  he  could  live  on  the  islands,  and  the  small 
income  he  had,  insufficient  elsewhere,  would  be  am- 
ple to  keep  him.  He  could  grow  coconuts;  that 


RED  1*1 

would  give  him  an  occupation;  and  he  would  send 
for  his  books  and  a  piano;  but  his  quick  mind  saw 
that  in  all  this  he  was  merely  trying  to  conceal  from 
himself  the  desire  which  obsessed  him. 

He  wanted  Sally.  He  loved  not  only  her  beauty, 
but  that  dim  soul  which  he  divined  behind  her  suf- 
fering eyes.  He  would  intoxicate  her  with  his  pas- 
sion. In  the  end  he  would  make  her  forget.  And 
in  an  ecstasy  of  surrender  he  fancied  himself  giving 
her  too  the  happiness  which  he  had  thought  never 
to  know  again,  but  had  now  so  miraculously  achieved. 

He  asked  her  to  live  with  him.  She  refused.  He 
had  expected  that  and  did  not  let  it  depress  him, 
for  he  was  sure  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  yield. 
His  love  was  irresistible.  He  told  the  old  woman  of 
his  wishes,  and  found  somewhat  to  his  surprise  that 
she  and  the  neighbours,  long  aware  of  them,  were 
strongly  urging  Sally  to  accept  his  offer.  After  all, 
every  native  was  glad  to  keep  house  for  a  white  man, 
and  Neilson  according  to  the  standards  of  the  island 
was  a  rich  one.  The  trader  with  whom  he  boarded 
went  to  her  and  told  her  not  to  be  a  fool ;  such  an  op- 
portunity would  not  come  again,  and  after  so  long 
she  could  not  still  believe  that  Red  would  ever  re- 
turn. The  girl's  resistance  only  increased  Neilson's 
desire,  and  what  had  been  a  very  pure  love  now 
became  an  agonising  passion.  He  was  determined 
that  nothing  should  stand  in  his  way.  He  gave 
Sally  no  peace.  At  last,  worn  out  by  his  persistence 
and  the  persuasions,  by  turns  pleading  and  angry, 
of  everyone  around  her,  she  consented.  But  the 
day  after  when,  exultant,  he  went  to  see  her  he  found 


142  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

that  in  the  night  she  had  burnt  down  the  hut  in 
which  she  and  Red  had  lived  together.  The  old 
crone  ran  towards  him  full  of  angry  abuse  of  Sally, 
but  he  waved  her  aside ;  it  did  not  matter ;  they  would 
build  a  bungalow  on  the  place  where  the  hut  had 
stood.  A  European  house  would  really  be  more 
convenient  if  he  wanted  to  bring  out  a  piano  and 
a  vast  number  of  books. 

And  so  the  little  wooden  house  was  built  in  which 
he  had  now  lived  for  many  years,  and  Sally  became 
his  wife.  But  after  the  first  few  weeks  of  rapture, 
during  which  he  was  satisfied  with  what  she  gave 
him  he  had  known  little  happiness.  She  had  yielded 
to  him,  through  weariness,  but  she  had  only  yielded 
what  she  set  no  store  on.  The  soul  which  he  had 
dimly  glimpsed  escaped  him.  He  knew  that  she 
cared  nothing  for  him.  She  still  loved  Red,  and 
all  the  time  she  was  waiting  for  his  return.  At  a 
sign  from  him,  Neilson  knew  that,  notwithstanding 
his  love,  his  tenderness,  his  sympathy,  his  generos- 
ity, she  would  leave  him  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation. She  would  never  give  a  thought  to  his  dis- 
tress. Anguish  seized  him  and  he  battered  at  that 
impenetrable  self  of  hers  which  sullenly  resisted  him. 
His  love  became  bitter.  He  tried  to  melt  her  heart 
with  kindness,  but  it  remained  as  hard  as  before; 
he  feigned  indifference,  but  she  did  not  notice  it. 
Sometimes  he  lost  his  temper  and  abused  her,  and 
then  she  wept  silently.  Sometimes  he  thought  she 
was  nothing  but  a  fraud,  and  that  soul  simply  an 
invention  of  his  own,  and  that  he  could  not  get  into 
the  sanctuary  of  her  heart  because  there  was  no 


RED  145 

sanctuary  there.  His  love  became  a  prison  from 
which  he  longed  to  escape,  but  he  had  not  the 
strength  merely  to  open  the  door — that  was  all  it 
needed — and  walk  out  into  the  open  air.  It  was 
torture  and  at  last  he  became  numb  and  hopeless. 
In  the  end  the  fire  burnt  itself  out  and,  when  he 
saw  her  eyes  rest  for  an  instant  on  the  slender  bridge, 
it  was  no  longer  rage  that  filled  his  heart  but  impa- 
tience. For  many  years  now  they  had  lived  to- 
gether bound  by  the  ties  of  habit  and  convenience, 
and  it  was  with  a  smile  that  he  looked  back  on  his 
old  passion.  She  was  an  old  woman,  for  the  women 
on  the  islands  age  quickly,  and  if  he  had  no  love 
for  her  any  more  he  had  tolerance.  She  left  him 
alone.  He  was  contented  with  his  piano  and  his 
books. 

His  thoughts  led  him  to  a  desire  for  words. 

"When  I  look  back  now  and  reflect  on  that  brief 
passionate  love  of  Red  and  Sally,  I  think  that  per- 
haps they  should  thank  the  ruthless  fate  that  sepa- 
rated them  when  their  love  seemed  still  to  be  at  its 
height.  They  suffered,  but  they  suffered  in  beauty. 
They  were  spared  the  real  tragedy  of  love." 

"I  don't  know  exactly  as  I  get  you,"  said  the 
skipper. 

"The  tragedy  of  love  is  not  death  or  separation. 
How  long  do  you  think  it  would  have  been  before 
one  or  other  of  them  ceased  to  care?  Oh,  it  is 
dreadfully  bitter  to  look  at  a  woman  whom  you  have 
loved  with  all  your  heart  and  soul,  so  that  you  felt 
you  could  not  bear  to  let  her  out  of  your  sight,  and 
realise  that  you  would  not  mind  if  you  never  saw 


144  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

her  again.     The  tragedy  of  love  is  indifference." 

But  while  he  was  speaking  a  very  extraordinary 
thing  happened.  Though  he  had  been  addressing 
the  skipper  he  had  not  been  talking  to  him,  he  had 
been  putting  his  thoughts  into  words  for  himself, 
and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  man  in  front  of  him 
he  had  not  seen  him.  But  now  an  image  presented 
itself  to  them,  an  image  not  of  the  man  he  saw,  but 
of  another  man.  It  was  as  though  he  were  looking 
into  one  of  those  distorting  mirrors  that  make  you 
extraordinarily  squat  or  outrageously  elongate,  but 
here  exactly  the  opposite  took  place,  and  in  the 
obese,  ugly  old  man  he  caught  the  shadowy  glimpse 
of  a  stripling.  He  gave  him  now  a  quick,  searching 
scrutiny.  Why  had  a  haphazard  stroll  brought  him 
just  to  this  place?  A  sudden  tremor  of  his  heart 
made  him  slightly  breathless.  An  absurd  suspicion 
seized  him.  What  had  occurred  to  him  was  im- 
possible, and  yet  it  might  be  a  fact. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

The  skipper's  face  puckered  and  he  gave  a  cun- 
ning chuckle.  He  looked  then  malicious  and  hor- 
ribly vulgar. 

"It's  such  a  damned  long  time  since  I  heard  it 
that  I  almost  forget  it  myself.  But  for  thirty  years 
now  in  the  islands  they've  always  called  me  Red." 

His  huge  form  shook  as  he  gave  a  low,  almost 
silent  laugh.  It  was  obscene.  Neilson  shuddered. 
Red  was  hugely  amused,  and  from  his  bloodshot 
eyes  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

Neilson  gave  a  gasp,  for  at  that  moment  a  woman 
came  in.  She  was  a  native,  a  woman  of  somewhat 


RED  145 

commanding  presence,  stout  without  being  corpu- 
lent, dark,  for  the  natives  grow  darker  with  age, 
with  very  grey  hair.  She  wore  a  black  Mother 
Hubbard,  and  its  thinness  showed  her  heavy  breasts. 
The  moment  had  come. 

She  made  an  observation  to  Neilson  about  some 
household  matter  and  he  answered.  He  wondered 
if  his  voice  sounded  as  unnatural  to  her  as  it  did 
to  himself.  She  gave  the  man  who  was  sitting  in 
the  chair  by  the  window  an  indifferent  glance,  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  The  moment  had  come  and 
gone. 

Neilson  for  a  moment  could  not  speak.  He  was- 
strangely  shaken.  Then  he  said: 

"I'd  be  very  glad  if  you'd  stay  and  have  a  bit 
of  dinner  with  me.  Pot  luck." 

"I  don't  think  I  will,"  said  Red.  "I  must  go 
after  this  fellow  Gray.  I'll  give  him  his  stuff  and 
then  I'll  get  away.  I  want  to  be  back  in  Apia  to- 


morrow." 


"I'll  send  a  boy  along  with  you  to  show  you  the 
way." 

"That'll  be  fine." 

Red  heaved  himself  out  of  his  chair,  while  the 
Swede  called  one  of  the  boys  who  worked  on  the 
plantation.  He  told  him  where  the  skipper  wanted 
to  go,  and  the  boy  stepped  along  the  bridge.  Red 
prepared  to  follow  him. 

"Don't  fall  in,"  said  Neilson. 

"Not  on  your  life." 

Neilson  watched  him  make  his  way  across  and 
when  he  had  disappeared  among  the  coconuts  he 


146  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

looked  still.  Then  he  sank  heavily  in  his  chair. 
Was  that  the  man  who  had  prevented  him  from 
being  happy?  Was  that  the  man  whom  Sally  had 
loved  all  these  years  and  for  whom  she  had  waited 
so  desperately?  It  was  grotesque.  A  sudden  fury 
seized  him  so  that  he  had  an  instinct  to  spring  up  and 
smash  everything  around  him.  He  had  been 
-cheated.  They  had  seen  each  other  at  last  and  had 
not  known  it.  He  began  to  laugh,  mirthlessly,  and 
his  laughter  grew  till  it  became  hysterical.  The 
Gods  had  played  him  a  cruel  trick.  And  he  was 
.old  now. 

At  last  Sally  came  in  to  tell  him  dinner  was  ready. 
He  sat  down  in  front  of  her  and  tried  to  eat.  He 
•wondered  what  she  would  say  if  he  told  her  now 
that  the  fat  old  man  sitting  in  the  chair  was  the 
lover  whom  she  remembered  still  with  the  passion- 
ate abandonment  of  her  youth.  Years  ago,  when 
he  hated  her  because  she  made  him  so  unhappy,  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  tell  her.  He  wanted  to 
hurt  her  then  as  she  hurt  him,  because  his  hatred 
was  only  love.  But  now  he  did  not  care.  He 
•shrugged  his  shoulders  listlessly. 

"What  did  that  man  want?"  she  asked  presently. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  was  old  too,  a 
fat  old  native  woman.  He  wondered  why  he  had 
«ver  loved  her  so  madly.  He  had  laid  at  her  feet 
all  the  treasures  of  his  soul,  and  she  had  cared  noth- 
ing for  them.  Waste,  what  waste  1  And  now,  when 
he  looked  at  her,  he  felt  only  contempt.  His  pa- 
tience was  at  last  exhausted.  He  answered  her  ques- 
tion. 


RED 

"He's  the  captain  of  a  schooner.  He's  come 
from  Apia." 

"Yes." 

"He  brought  me  news  from  home.  My  eldest 
brother  is  very  ill  and  I  must  go  back." 

"Will  you  be  gone  long?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


The  Pool 

WHEN  I  was  introduced  to  Lawson  by  Chap- 
lin,  the  owner  of  the  Hotel  Metropole  at 
Apia,  I  paid  no  particular  attention  to  him.  We 
were  sitting  in  the  lounge  over  an  early  cocktail  and 
I  was  listening  with  amusement  to  the  gossip  of 
the  island. 

Chaplin  entertained  me.  He  was  by  profession 
a  mining  engineer  and  perhaps  it  was  characteristic 
of  him  that  he  had  settled  in  a  place  where  his  pro- 
fessional attainments  were  of  no  possible  value.  It 
was,  however,  generally  reported  that  he  was  an  ex- 
tremely clever  mining  engineer.  He  was  a  small 
man,  neither  fat  nor  thin,  with  black  hair,  scanty 
on  the  crown,  turning  grey,  and  a  small,  untidy  mous- 
tache ;  his  face,  partly  from  the  sun  and  partly  from 
liquor,  was  very  red.  He  was  but  a  figurehead, 
for  the  hotel,  though  so  grandly  named  but  a  frame 
building  of  two  storeys,  was  managed  by  his  wife,  a 
tall,  gaunt  Australian  of  five  and  forty,  with  an 
imposing  presence  and  a  determined  air.  The  lit- 
tle man,  excitable  and  often  tipsy,  was  terrified  of 
her,  and  the  stranger  soon  heard  of  domestic  quar- 
rels in  which  she  used  her  fist  and  her  foot  in  order 

148 


THE  POOL  149 

to  keep  him  in  subjection.  She  had  been  known  after 
a  night  of  drunkenness  to  confine  him  for  twenty- 
four  hours  to  his  own  room,  and  then  he  could  be 
seen,  afraid  to  leave  his  prison,  talking  somewhat 
pathetically  from  his  verandah  to  people  in  the 
street  below. 

He  was  a  character,  and  his  reminiscences  of  a 
varied  life,  whether  true  ojr  not,  made  him  worth 
listening  to,  so  that  when  Lawson  strolled  in  I  was 
inclined  to  resent  the  interruption.  Although  not 
midday,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  had  enough  to 
drink,  and  it  was  without  enthusiasm  that  I  yielded 
to  his  persistence  and  accepted  his  offer  of  another 
cocktail.  I  knew  already  that  Chaplin's  head  was 
weak.  The  next  round  which  in  common  politeness 
I  should  be  forced  to  order  would  be  enough  to  make 
him  lively,  and  then  Mrs  Chaplin  would  give  me 
black  looks. 

Nor  was  there  anything  attractive  in  Lawson's 
appearance.  He  was  a  little  thin  man,  with  a  long, 
sallow  face  and  a  narrow,  weak  chin,  a  prominent 
nose,  large  and  bony,  and  great  shaggy  black  eye- 
brows. They  gave  him  a  peculiar  look.  His  eyes, 
very  large  and  very  dark,  were  magnificent.  He  was 
jolly,  but  his  jollity  did  not  seem  to  me  sincere;  it 
was  on  the  surface,  a  mask  which  he  wore  to  deceive 
the  world,  and  I  suspected  that  it  concealed  a  mean 
nature.  He  was  plainly  anxious  to  be  thought  a 
"good  sport"  and  he  was  hail-fellow-well-met;  but, 
I  do  not  know  why,  I  felt  that  he  was  cunning  and 
shifty.  He  talked  a  great  deal  in  a  raucous  voice, 
and  he  and  Chaplin  capped  one  another's  stories 


150  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

of  beanos  which  had  become  legendary,  stories  of 
"wet"  nights  at  the  English  Club,  of  shooting  expe- 
ditions where  an  incredible  amount  of  whisky  had 
been  consumed,  and  of  jaunts  to  Sydney  of  which 
their  pride  was  that  they  could  remt  Tiber  nothing 
from  the  time  they  landed  till  the  time  they  sailed. 
A  pair  of  drunken  swine.  But  even  in  their  intoxi- 
cation, for  by  now  after  four  cocktails  each,  neither 
was  sober,  there  was  a  great  difference  between 
Chaplin,  rough  and  vulgar,  and  Lawson:  Lawson 
might  be  drunk,  but  he  was  certainly  a  gentleman. 

At  last  he  got  out  of  his  chair,  a  little  unsteadily. 

"Well,  I'll  be  getting  along  home,"  he  said.  "See 
you  before  dinner." 

"Missus  all  right?"  said  Chaplin. 

"Yes." 

He  went  out.  There  was  a  peculiar  note  in  the 
monosyllable  of  his  answer  which  made  me  look  up. 

"Good  chap,"  said  Chaplin  flatly,  as  Lawson  went 
out  of  the  door  into  the  sunshine.  "One  of  the 
best.  Pity  he  drinks." 

This  from  Chaplin  was  an  observation  not  with- 
out humour. 

"And  when  he's  drunk  he  wants  to  fight  people." 

"Is  he  often  drunk?" 

"Dead  drunk,  three  or  four  days  a  week.  It's  the 
island  done  it,  and  Ethel." 

"Who's  Ethel?" 

"Ethel's  his  wife.  Married  a  half-caste.  Old 
Brevald's  daughter.  Took  her  away  from  here. 
Only  thing  to  do.  But  she  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
now  they're  back  again.  He'll  hang  himself  one  of 


THE  POOL  151 

these  days,  if  he  don't  drink  himself  to  death  before. 
Good  chap.  Nasty  when  he's  drunk." 

Chaplin  belched  loudly. 

"I'll  go  and  put  my  head  under  the  shower.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  had  that  last  cocktail.  It's  always 
the  last  one  that  does  you  in." 

He  looked  uncertainly  at  the  staircase  as  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  to  the  cubby  hole  in  which  was 
the  shower,  and  then  with  unnatural  seriousness- 
got  up. 

"Pay  you  to  cultivate  Lawson,"  he  said.  "A  well 
read  chap.  You'd  be  surprised  when  he's  sober. 
Clever  too.  Worth  talking  to." 

Chaplin  had  told  me  the  whole  story  in  these 
few  speeches. 

When  I  came  in  towards  evening  from  a  ride 
along  the  seashore  Lawson  was  again  in  the  hotel. 
He  was  heavily  sunk  in  one  of  the  cane  chairs  in 
the  lounge  and  he  looked  at  me  with  glassy  eyes. 
It  was  plain  that  he  had  been  drinking  all  the  after- 
noon. He  was  torpid,  and  the  look  on  his  face  was 
sollen  and  vindictive.  His  glance  rested  on  me  for 
a  moment,  but  I  could  see  that  he  did  not  recognise 
me.  Two  or  three  other  men  were  sitting  there, 
shaking  dice,  and  they  took  no  notice  of  him.  His 
condition  was  evidently  too  usual  to  attract  atten- 
tion. I  sat  down  and  began  to  play. 

"You're  a  damned  sociable  lot,"  said  Lawson 
suddenly. 

He  got  out  of  his  chair  and  waddled  with  bent 
knees  towards  the  door.  I  do  not  know  whether 


152  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

the  spectacle  was  more  ridiculous  than  revolting. 
When  he  had  gone  one  of  the  men  sniggered. 

"Lawson's  fairly  soused  to-day,"  he  said. 

"If  I  couldn't  carry  my  liquor  better  than  that," 
said  another,  'Td  climb  on  the  waggon  and  stay 
there." 

Who  would  have  thought  that  this  wretched  ob- 
ject was  in  his  way  a  romantic  figure  or  that  his 
life  had  in  it  those  elements  of  pity  and  terror  which 
the  theorist  tells  us  are  necessary  to  achieve  the 
effect  of  tragedy? 

I  did  not  see  him  again  for  two  or  three  days. 

I  was  sitting  one  evening  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
hotel  on  a  verandah  that  overlooked  the  street  when 
Lawson  came  up  and  sank  into  a  chair  beside  me. 
He  was  quite  sober.  He  made  a  casual  remark 
and  then,  when  I  had  replied  somewhat  indifferently, 
added  with  a  laugh  which  had  in  it  an  apologetic 
tone: 

"I  was  devilish  soused  the  other  day." 

I  did  not  answer.  There  was  really  nothing  to 
say.  I  pulled  away  at  my  pipe  in  the  vain  hope  of 
keeping  the  mosquitoes  away,  and  looked  at  the  na- 
tives going  home  from  their  work.  They  walked 
with  long  steps,  slowly,  with  care  and  dignity,  and 
the  soft  patter  of  their  naked  feet  was  strange  to 
hear.  Their  dark  hair,  curling  or  straight,  was 
often  white  with  lime,  and  then  they  had  a  look 
of  extraordinary  distinction.  They  were  tall  anc^ 
finely  built.  Then  a  gang  of  Solomon  Islanders,  in- 
dentured labourers,  passed  by,  singing;  they  were 
shorter  and  slighter  than  the  Samoans,  coal  black, 


THE  POOL  159 

with  great  heads  of  fuzzy  hair  dyed  red.  Now  and 
then  a  white  man  drove  past  in  his  buggy  or  rode 
into  the  hotel  yard.  In  the  lagoon  two  or  three 
schooners  reflected  their  grace  in  the  tranquil  water. 

"I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  do  in  a  place  like 
this  except  to  get  soused,"  said  Lawson  at  last. 

"Don't  you  like  Samoa?"  I  asked  casually,  for 
something  to  say. 

"It's  pretty,  isn't  it?" 

The  word  he  chose  seemed  so  inadequate  to  de- 
scribe the  unimaginable  beauty  of  the  island,  that 
I  smiled,  and  smiling  I  turned  to  look  at  him.  I  was 
startled  by  the  expression  in  those  fine  sombre  eyes 
of  his,  an  expression  of  intolerable  anguish;  they  be- 
trayed a  tragic  depth  of  emotion  of  which  I  should 
never  have  thought  him  capable.  But  the  expres- 
sion passed  away  and  he  smiled.  His  smile  was 
simple  and  a  little  naive.  It  changed  his  face  so  that 
I  wavered  in  my  first  feeling  of  aversion  from  him. 

"I  was  all  over  the  place  when  I  first  came  out," 
he  said. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  went  away  for  good  about  three  years  ago, 
but  I  came  back."  He  hesitated.  "My  wife  wanted 
to  come  back.  She  was  born  here,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes." 

He  was  silent  again,  and  then  hazarded  a  remark 
about  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  He  asked  me  if  I 
had  been  up  to  Vailima.  For  some  reason  he  was 
making  an  effort  to  be  agreeable  to  me.  He  began 
to  talk  of  Stevenson's  books,  and  presently  the  con* 
versation  drifted  to  London. 


154  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"I  suppose  Covent  Garden's  still  going  strong," 
he  said.  "I  think  I  miss  the  opera  as  much  as  any- 
thing here.  Have  you  seen  Tristan  and  Isolde?" 

He  asked  me  the  question  as  though  the  answer 
were  really  important  to  him,  and  when  I  said,  a 
little  casually  I  daresay,  that  I  had,  he  seemed 
pleased.  He  began  to  speak  of  Wagner,  not  as  a 
musician,  but  as  the  plain  man  who  received  from 
him  an  emotional  satisfaction  that  he  could  not  an- 
alyse. 

"I  suppose  Bayreuth  was  the  place  to  go  really," 
he  said.  "I  never  had  the  money,  worse  luck.  But 
of  course  one  might  do  worse  than  Covent  Garden, 
all  the  lights  and  the  women  dressed  up  to  the  nines, 
and  the  music.  The  first  act  of  the  Walkure?s  all 
right,  isn't  it?  And  the  end  of  Tristan.  Golly  I" 

His  eyes  were  flashing  now  and  his  face  was  lit 
up  so  that  he  hardly  seemed  the  same  man.  There 
was  a  flush  on  his  sallow,  thin  cheeks,  and  I  forgot 
that  his  voice  was  harsh  and  unpleasant.  There 
was  even  a  certain  charm  about  him. 

"By  George,  I'd  like  to  be  in  London  to-night. 
Do  you  know  the  Pall  Mall  restaurant?  I  used  to 
go  there  a  lot.  Piccadilly  Circus  with  the  shops  all 
lit  up,  and  the  crowd.  I  think  it's  stunning  to  stand 
there  and  watch  the  buses  and  taxis  streaming  along 
as  though  they'd  never  stop.  And  I  like  the  Strand 
too.  What  are  those  lines  about  God  and  Charing 
Cross?" 

I  was  taken  aback. 

"Thompson's,  d'you  mean?"  I  asked. 

I  quoted  them. 


THE  POOL  155 

"And  when  so  sad,  thou  canst  not  sadder t 
Cry,  and  upon  thy  so  sore  loss 
Shall  shine  the  traffic  of  Jacob's  ladder 
Pitched  between  Heaven  and  Charing  Cross." 

He  gave  a  faint  sigh. 

"I've  read  The  Hound  of  Heaven.  It's  a  bit  of 
all  right." 

"It's  generally  thought  so,"   I  murmured. 

"You  don't  meet  anybody  here  who's  read  any- 
thing. They  think  it's  swank." 

There  was  a  wistful  look  on  his  face,  and  I 
thought  I  divined  the  feeling  that  made  him  come 
to  me.  I  was  a  link  with  the  world  he  regretted 
and  a  life  that  he  would  know  no  more.  Because 
not  so  very  long  before  I  had  been  in  the  London 
which  he  loved,  he  looked  upon  me  with  awe  and 
envy.  He  had  not  spoken  for  five  minutes  perhaps 
when  he  broke  out  with  words  that  startled  me  by 
their  intensity. 

"I'm  fed  up,"  he  said.    "I'm  fed  up." 

"Then  why  don't  you  clear  out?"  I  asked. 

His  face  grew  sullen. 

"My  lungs  are  a  bit  dicky.  I  couldn't  stand  afc 
English  winter  now." 

At  that  moment  another  man  joined  us  on  the 
verandah  and  Lawson  sank  into  a  moody  silence. 

"It's  about  time  for  a  drain,"  said  the  new- 
comer. "Who'll  have  a  drop  of  Scotch  with  me? 
Lawson?" 

Lawson  seemed  to  arise  from  a  distant  world. 
He  got  up. 


156  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Let's  go  down  to  the  bar,"  he  said. 

When  he  left  me  I  remained  with  a  more  kindly 
feeling  towards  him  than  I  should  have  expected. 
He  puzzled  and  interested  me.  And  a  few  days 
later  I  met  his  wife.  I  knew  they  had  been  married 
for  five  or  six  years,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  that 
she  was  still  extremely  young.  When  he  married 
her  she  could  not  have  been  more  than  sixteen.  She 
was  adorably  pretty.  She  was  no  darker  than  a 
Spaniard,  small  and  very  beautifully  made,  with 
tiny  hands  and  feet,  and  a  slight,  lithe  figure.  Her 
features  were  lovely;  but  I  think  what  struck  me 
most  was  the  delicacy  of  her  appearance;  the  half- 
caste  as  a  rule  have  a  certain  coarseness,  they  seem 
a  little  roughly  formed,  but  she  had  an  exquisite 
daintiness  which  took  your  breath  away.  There  was 
something  extremely  civilised  about  her,  so  that  it 
surprised  you  to  see  her  in  those  surroundings,  and 
you  thought  of  those  famous  beauties  who  had  set 
all  the  world  talking  at  the  Court  of  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  III.  Though  she  wore  but  a  muslin  frock 
and  a  straw  hat  she  wore  them  with  an  elegance 
that  suggested  the  woman  of  fashion.  She  must 
have  been  ravishing  when  Lawson  first  saw  her. 

He  had  but  lately  come  out  from  England  to  man- 
age the  local  branch  of  an  English  bank,  and,  reach- 
ing Samoa  at  the  beginning  of  the  dry  season,  he 
had  taken  a  room  at  the  hotel.  He  quickly  made 
the  acquaintance  of  all  and  sundry.  The  life  of  the 
island  is  pleasant  and  easy.  He  enjoyed  the  long 
idle  talks  in  the  lounge  of  the  hotel  and  the  gay 
evenings  at  the  English  Club  when  a  group  of  fel- 


THE  POOL  157 

lows  would  play  pool.  He  liked  Apia  straggling 
along  the  edge  of  the  lagoon,  with  its.  stores  and 
bungalows,  and  its  native  village.  Then  there  were 
week-ends  when  he  would  ride  over  to  the  house  of 
one  planter  or  another  and  spend  a  couple  of  nights 
on  the  hills.  He  had  never  before  known  freedom 
or  leisure.  And  he  was  intoxicated  by  the  sunshine. 
When  he  rode  through  the  bush  his  head  reeled  a 
little  at  the  beauty  that  surrounded  him.  The  coun- 
try was  indescribably  fertile.  In  parts  the  forest 
was  still  virgin,  a  tangle  of  strange  trees,  luxuriant 
undergrowth,  and  vine;  it  gave  an  impression  that 
was  mysterious  and  troubling. 

But  the  spot  that  entranced  him  was  a  pool  a 
mile  or  two  away  from  Apia  to  which  in  the  evenings 
he  often  went  to  bathe.  There  was  a  little  river 
that  bubbled  over  the  rocks  in  a  swift  stream,  and 
then,  after  forming  the  deep  pool,  ran  on,  shallow 
and  crystalline,  past  a  ford  made  by  great  stones 
where  the  natives  came  sometimes  to  bathe  or  to 
wash  their  clothes.  The  coconut  trees,  with  their 
frivolous  elegance,  grew  thickly  on  the  banks,  all 
clad  with  trailing  plants,  and  they  were  reflected  in 
the  green  water.  It  was  just  such  a  scene  as  you 
might  see  in  Devonshire  among  the  hills,  and  yet 
with  a  difference,  for  it  had  a  tropical  richness,  a 
passion,  a  scented  languor  which  seemed  to  melt  the 
heart.  The  water  was  fresh,  but  not  cold;  and  it 
was  delicious  after  the  heat  of  the  day.  To  bathe 
there  refreshed  not  only  the  body  but  the  soul. 

At  the  hour  when  Lawson  went,  there  was  not 
a  soul  and  he  lingered  for  a  long  time,  now  float- 


158  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

ing  idly  in  the  water,  now  drying  himself  in  the 
evening  sun,  enjoying  the  solitude  and  the  friendly 
silence.  He  did  not  regret  London  then,  nor  the 
life  that  he  had  abandoned,  for  life  as  it  was  seemed 
complete  and  exquisite. 

It  was  here  that  he  first  saw  Ethel. 

Occupied  till  late  by  letters  which  had  to  be  fin- 
ished for  the  monthly  sailing  of  the  boat  next  day, 
he  rode  down  one  evening  to  the  pool  when  the 
light  was  almost  failing.  He  tied  up  his  horse  and 
sauntered  to  the  bank.  A  girl  was  sitting  there. 
She  glanced  round  as  he  came  and  noiselessly  slid 
into  the  water.  She  vanished  like  a  naiad  startled 
by  the  approach  of  a  mortal.  He  was  surprised 
and  amused.  He  wondered  where  she  had  hidden 
herself.  He  swam  downstream  and  presently  saw 
her  sitting  on  a  rock.  She  looked  at  him  with  un- 
curious  eyes.  He  called  out  a  greeting  in  Samoan. 

"Talofa." 

She  answered  him,  suddenly  smiling,  and  then  let 
herself  into  the  water  again.  She  swam  easily  and 
her  hair  spread  out  behind  her.  He  watched  her 
cross  the  pool  and  climb  out  on  the  bank.  Like 
all  the  natives  she  bathed  in  a  Mother  Hubbard, 
and  the  water  had  made  it  cling  to  her  slight  body. 
She  wrung  out  her  hair,  and  as  she  stood  there,  un- 
concerned, she  looked  more  than  ever  like  a  wild 
creature  of  the  water  or  the  woods.  He  saw  now 
that  she  was  half-caste.  He  swam  towards  her 
and,  getting  out,  addressed  her  in  English, 

"You're  having  a  late  swim." 


THE  POOL  159 

She  shook  back  her  hair  and  then  let  it  spread 
over  her  shoulders  in  luxuriant  curls. 

"I  like  it  when  I'm  alone,"  she  said. 

"So  do  I." 

She  laughed  with  the  childlike  frankness  of  the 
native.  She  slipped  a  dry  Mother  Hubbard  over 
her  head  and,  letting  down  the  wet  one,  stepped  out 
of  it.  She  wrung  it  out  and  was  ready  to  go.  She 
paused  a  moment  irresolutely  and  then  sauntered 
off.  The  night  fell  suddenly. 

Lawson  went  back  to  the  hotel  and,  describing  her 
to  the  men  who  were  in  the  lounge  shaking  dice  for 
drinks,  soon  discovered  who  she  was.  Her  father 
was  a  Norwegian  called  Brevald  who  was  often 
to  be  seen  in  the  bar  of  the  Hotel  Metropole  drink- 
ing rum  and  water.  He  was  a  little  old  man,  knotted 
and  gnarled  like  an  ancient  tree,  who  had  come  out 
to  the  islands  forty  years  before  as  mate  of  a  sail- 
ing vessel.  He  had  been  a  blacksmith,  a  trader,  a 
planter,  and  at  one  time  fairly  well-to-do ;  but,  ruined 
by  the  great  hurricane  of  the  nineties,  he  had  now 
nothing  to  live  on  but  a  small  plantation  of  coco- 
nut trees.  He  had  had  four  native  wives  and,  as 
he  told  you  with  a  cracked  chuckle,  more  children 
than  he  could  count.  But  some  had  died  and  some 
had  gone  out  into  the  world,  so  that  now  the  only 
one  left  at  home  was  Ethel. 

"She's  a  peach,''  said  Nelson,  the  supercargo  of 
the  Moana.  "I've  given  her  the  glad  eye  once  or 
twice,  but  I  guess  there's  nothing  doing." 

"Old  Brevald's  not  that  sort  of  a  fool,  sonny," 
put  in  another,  a  man  called  Miller.  "He  wants  a 


160  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

son-in-law  who's  prepared  to  keep  him  in  comfort 
for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

It  was  distasteful  to  Lawson  that  they  should 
speak  of  the  girl  in  that  fashion.  He  made  a  re- 
mark about  the  departing  mail  and  so  distracted 
their  attention.  But  next  evening  he  went  again 
to  the  pool.  Ethel  was  there;  and  the  mystery  of 
the  sunset,  the  deep  silence  of  the  water,  the  lithe 
grace  of  the  coconut  trees,  added  to  her  beauty,  giv- 
ing it  a  profundity,  a  magic,  which  stirred  the  heart 
to  unknown  emotions.  For  some  reason  that  time 
he  had  the  whim  not  to  speak  to  her.  She  took  no 
notice  of  him.  She  did  not  even  glance  in  his  di- 
rection. She  swam  about  the  green  pool.  She  dived, 
she  rested  on  the  bank,  as  though  she  were  quite 
alone:  he  had  a  queer  feeling  that  he  was  invisible. 
Scraps  of  poetry,  half  forgotten,  floated  across  his 
memory,  and  vague  recollections  of  the  Greece  he 
had  negligently  studied  in  his  school  days.  When 
she  had  changed  her  wet  clothes  for  dry  ones  and 
sauntered  away  he  found  a  scarlet  hibiscus  where 
she  had  been.  It  was  a  flower  that  she  had  worn 
in  her  hair  when  she  came  to  bathe  and,  having  taken 
it  out  on  getting  into  the  water,  had  forgotten  or 
not  cared  to  put  in  again.  He  took  it  in  his  hands 
and  looked  at  it  with  a  singular  emotion.  He  had 
an  instinct  to  keep  it,  but  his  sentimentality  irritated 
him,  and  he  flung  it  away.  It  gave  him  quite  a  little 
pang  to  see  it  float  down  the  stream. 

He  wondered  what  strangeness  it  was  in  her  na- 
ture that  urged  her  to  go  down  to  this  hidden  pool 
when  there  was  no  likelihood  that  anyone  should 


THE  POOL  161 

be  there.  The  natives  of  the  islands  are  devoted 
to  the  water.  They  bathe,  somewhere  or  other, 
every  day,  once  always,  and  often  twice;  but  they 
bathe  in  bands,  laughing  and  joyous,  a  whole  family 
together;  and  you  often  saw  a  group  of  girls,  dap- 
pled by  the  sun  shining  through  the  trees,  with  the 
half-castes  among  them,  splashing  about  the  shal- 
lows of  the  stream.  It  looked  as  though  there  were 
in  this  pool  some  secret  which  attracted  Ethel 
against  her  will. 

Now  the  night  had  fallen,  mysterious  and  silent, 
and  he  let  himself  down  in  the  water  softly,  in  or- 
der to  make  no  sound,  and  swam  lazily  in  the  warm 
darkness.  The  water  seemed  fragrant  still  from 
her  slender  body.  He  rode  back  to  the  town  under 
the  starry  sky.  He  felt  at  peace  with  the  world. 

Now  he  went  every  evening  to  the  pool  and  every 
evening  he  saw  Ethel.  Presently  he  overcame  her 
timidity.  She  became  playful  and  friendly.  They 
sat  together  on  the  rocks  above  the  pool,  where  the 
water  ran  fast,  and  they  lay  side  by  side  on  the  ledge 
that  overlooked  it,  watching  the  gathering  dusk  en- 
velop it  with  mystery.  It  was  inevitable  that  their 
meetings  should  become  known — in  the  South  Seas 
everyone  seems  to  know  everyone's  business — and 
he  was  subjected  to  much  rude  chaff  by  the  men  at 
the  hotel.  He  smiled  and  let  them  talk.  It  was  not 
even  worth  while  to  deny  their  coarse  suggestions. 
His  feelings  were  absolutely  pure.  He  loved  Ethel 
as  a  poet  might  love  the  moon.  He  thought  of  her 
not  as  a  woman  but  as  something  not  of  this  earth. 
She  was  the  spirit  of  the  pool. 


162  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

One  day  at  the  hotel,  passing  through  the  bar,  he 
saw  that  old  Brevald,  as  ever  in  his  shabby  blue 
overalls,  was  standing  there.  Because  he  was 
Ethel's  father  he  had  a  desire  to  speak  to  him,  so 
he  went  in,  nodded  and,  ordering  his  own  drink, 
casually  turned  and  invited  the  old  man  to  have  one 
with  him.  They  chatted  for  a  few  minutes  of  local 
affairs,  and  Lawson  was  uneasily  conscious  that  the 
Norwegian  was  scrutinising  him  with  sly  blue  eyes. 
His  manner  was  not  agreeable.  It  was  sycophantic, 
and  yet  behind  the  cringing  air  of  an  old  man  who 
had  been  worsted  in  his  struggle  with  fate  was  a 
shadow  of  old  truculence.  Lawson  remembered  that 
he  had  once  been  captain  of  a  schooner  engaged  in 
the  slave  trade,  a  blackbirder  they  call  it  in  the 
Pacific,  and  he  had  a  large  hernia  in  the  chest  which 
was  the  result  of  a  wound  received  in  a  scrap  with 
Solomon  Islanders.  The  bell  rang  for  luncheon. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,"  said  Lawson. 

"Why  don't  you  come  along  to  my  place  one 
time?"  said  Brevald,  in  his  wheezy  voice.  "It's 
not  very  grand,  but  you'll  be  welcome.  You  know 
Ethel." 

"I'll  come  with  pleasure." 

"Sunday  afternoon's  the  best  time." 

Brevald's  bungalow,  shabby  and  bedraggled,  stood 
among  the  coconut  trees  of  the  plantation,  a  little 
away  from  the  main  road  that  ran  up  to  Vailima. 
Immediately  around  it  grew  huge  plantains.  With 
their  tattered  leaves  they  had  the  tragic  beauty  of 
a  lovely  woman  in  rags.  Everything  was  slovenly 
and  neglected.  Little  black  pigs,  thin  and  high- 


THE  POOL  163 

backed,  rooted  about,  and  chickens  clucked  noisily 
as  they  picked  at  the  refuse  scattered  here  and  there. 
Three  or  four  natives  were  lounging  about  the  ver- 
andah. When  Lawson  asked  for  Brevald  the  old 
man's  cracked  voice  called  out  to  him,  and  he  found 
him  in  the  sitting-room  smoking  an  old  briar  pipe. 

"Sit  down  and  make  yerself  at  home,"  he  said. 
"Ethel's  just  titivating." 

She  came  in.  She  wore  a  blouse  and  skirt  and 
her  hair  was  done  in  the  European  fashion.  Al- 
though she  had  not  the  wild,  timid  grace  of  the  girl 
who  came  down  every  evening  to  the  pool,  she 
seemed  now  more  usual  and  consequently  more  ap- 
proachable. She  shook  hands  with  Lawson.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  touched  her  hand. 

"I  hope  you'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us,"  she 
said. 

He  knew  she  had  been  at  a  mission  school,  and 
he  was  amused,  and  at  the  same  time  touched,  by 
the  company  manners  she  was  putting  on  for  his 
benefit.  Tea  was  already  set  out  on  the  table  and  in 
a  minute  old  Brevald's  fourth  wife  brought  in  the 
tea-pot.  She  was  a  handsome  native,  no  longer  very 
young,  and  she  spoke  but  a  few  words  of  English. 
She  smiled  and  smiled.  Tea  was  rather  a  solemn 
meal,  with  a  great  deal  of  bread  and  butter  and  a 
variety  of  very  sweet  cakes,  and  the  conversation 
was  formal.  Then  a  wrinkled  old  woman  came  in 
softly. 

"That's  Ethel's  granny,"  said  old  Brevald,  noisily 
spitting  on  the  floor. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  uncomfortably, 


J64,  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

so  that  you  saw  it  was  unusual  for  her  and  she 
would  have  been  more  at  ease  on  the  ground,  and 
remained  silently  staring  at  Lawson  w'th  fixed, 
shining  eyes.  In  the  kitchen  behind  the  bungalow 
someone  began  to  play  the  concertina  and  two  or 
three  voices  were  raised  in  a  hymn.  But  they  sang 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  sounds  rather  than  from 
piety. 

When  Lawson  walked  back  to  the  hotel  he  was 
strangely  happy.  He  was  touched  by  the  higgledy- 
piggledy  way  in  which  those  people  lived;  and  in 
the  smiling  good-nature  of  Mrs  Brevald,  in  the  little 
Norwegian's  fantastic  career,  and  in  the  shining 
mysterious  eyes  of  the  old  grandmother,  he  found 
something  unusual  and  fascinating.  It  was  a  more 
natural  life  than  any  he  had  known,  it  was  nearer  to 
the  friendly,  fertile  earth;  civilisation  repelled  him 
at  that  moment,  and  by  mere  contact  with  these 
creatures  of  a  more  primitive  nature  he  felt  a 
greater  freedom. 

He  saw  himself  rid  of  the  hotel  which  already 
was  beginning  to  irk  him,  settled  in  a  little  bungalow 
of  his  own,  trim  and  white,  in  front  of  the  sea  so 
that  he  had  before  his  eyes  always  the  multicoloured 
variety  of  the  lagoon.  He  loved  the  beautiful  island. 
London  and  England  meant  nothing  to  him  any 
more,  he  was  content  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days 
in  that  forgotten  spot,  rich  in  the  best  of  the  world's 
goods,  love  and  happiness.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that  whatever  the  obstacles  nothing  should  prevent 
him  from  marrying  Ethel. 

But  there  were  no  obstacles.    He  was  always  wel- 


THE  POOL  163 

come  at  the  Brevalds'  house.  The  old  man  was 
iagratiating  and  Mrs  Brevald  smiled  without  ceas- 
ing. He  had  brief  glimpses  of  natives  who  seemed 
somehow  to  belong  to  the  establishment,  and  once 
he  found  a  tall  youth  in  a  lava-lava,  his  body  tat- 
tooed, his  hair  white  with  lime,  sitting  with  Brevald, 
and  was  told  he  was  Mrs  Brevald's  brother's  son; 
but  for  the  most  part  they  kept  out  of  his  way.  Ethel 
was  delightful  with  him.  The  light  in  her  eyes  when 
she  saw  him  filled  him  with  ecstasy.  She  was  charm- 
ing and  nai've.  He  listened  enraptured  when  she 
told  him  of  the  mission  school  at  which  she  was  edu- 
cated, and  of  the  sisters.  He  went  with  her  to  the 
cinema  which  was  given  once  a  fortnight  and  danced 
with  her  at  the  dance  which  followed  it.  They  came 
from  all  parts  of  the  island  for  this,  since  gaieties 
are  few  in  Upolu;  and  you  saw  there  all  the  society 
of  the  place,  the  white  ladies  keeping  a  good  deal 
to  themselves,  the  half-castes  very  elegant  in  Amer- 
ican clothes,  the  natives,  strings  of  dark  girls  in 
white  Mother  Hubbards  and  young  men  in  unac- 
customed ducks  and  white  shoes.  It  was  all  very 
smart  and  gay.  Ethel  was  pleased  to  show  her 
friends  the  white  admirer  who  did  not  leave  her  side. 
The  rumour  was  soon  spread  that  he  meant  to  marry 
her  and  her  friends  looked  at  her  with  envy.  It  was 
a  great  thing  for  a  half-caste  to  get  a  white  man 
to  marry  her,  even  the  less  regular  relation  was  bet- 
ter than  nothing,  but  one  could  never  tell  what  it 
would  lead  to;  and  Lawson's  position  as  manager 
of  the  bank  made  him  one  of  the  catches  of  the 
;sland.  If  he  had  not  been  so  absorbed  in  Ethel  he 


166  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

would  have  noticed  that  many  eyes  were  fixed  on  him 
curiously,  and  he  would  have  seen  the  glances  of 
the  white  ladies  and  noticed  how  they  put  their 
heads  together  and  gossiped. 

Afterwards,  when  the  men  who  lived  at  the  hotel 
were  having  a  whisky  before  turning  in,  Nelson 
burst  out  with : 

"Say,  they  say  Lawson's  going  to  marry  that 
girl." 

"He's  a  damned  fool  then,"  said  Miller. 

Miller  was  a  German-American  who  had  changed 
his  name  from  Miiller,  a  big  man,  fat  and  bald- 
headed,  with  a  round,  clean-shaven  face.  He  wore 
large  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  which  gave  him  a 
benign  look,  and  his  ducks  were  always  clean  and 
white.  He  was  a  heavy  drinker,  invariably  ready 
to  stay  up  all  night  with  the  "boys,"  but  he  never 
got  drunk;  he  was  jolly  and  affable,  but  very  shrewd. 
Nothing  interfered  with  his  business;  he  represented 
a  firm  in  San  Francisco,  jobbers  of  the  goods  sold 
in  the  islands,  calico,  machinery  and  what  not;  and 
his  good-fellowship  was  part  of  his  stock-in-trade. 

"He  don't  know  what  he's  up  against,"  said  Nel- 
son. "Someone  ought  to  put  him  wise." 

"If  you'll  take  my  advice  you  won't  interfere  in 
what  don't  concern  you,"  said  Miller.  "When  a 
man's  made  up  his  mind  to  make  a  fool  of  himself, 
there's  nothing  like  letting  him.'* 

"I'm  all  for  having  a  good  time  with  the  girls 
out  here,  but  when  it  comes  to  marrying  them — this 
child  ain't  taking  any,  I'll  tell  the  world." 

Chaplin  was  there,  and  now  he  had  his  say. 


THE  POOL  167 

"I've  seen  a  lot  of  fellows  do  it,  and  it's  no 
good." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  talk  with  him,  Chaplin," 
said  Nelson.  "You  know  him  better  than  anyone 
else  does." 

"My  advice  to  Chaplin  is  to  leave  it  alone,"  said 
Miller. 

Even  in  those  days  Lawson  was  not  popular  and 
really  no  one  took  enough  interest  in  him  to  bother. 
Mrs  Chaplin  talked  it  over  with  two  or  three  of  the 
white  ladies,  but  they  contented  themselves  with  say- 
ing that  it  was  a  pity;  and  when  he  told  her  definitely 
that  he  was  going  to  be  married  it  seemed  too  late 
to  do  anything. 

For  a  year  Lawson  was  happy.  He  took  a  bunga- 
low at  the  point  of  the  bay  round  which  Apia  is 
built,  on  the  borders  of  a  native  village.  It  nestled 
charmingly  among  the  coconut  trees  and  faced  the 
passionate  blue  of  the  Pacific.  Ethel  was  lovely  as 
she  went  about  the  little  house,  lithe  and  graceful 
like  some  young  animal  of  the  woods,  and  she  was 
gay.  They  laughed  a  great  deal.  They  talked  non- 
sense. Sometimes  one  or  two  of  the  men  at  the 
hotel  would  come  over  and  spend  the  evening,  and 
often  on  a  Sunday  they  would  go  for  a  day  to  some 
planter  who  had  married  a  native;  now  and  then 
one  or  other  of  the  half-caste  traders  who  had 
a  store  in  Apia  would  give  a  party  and  they  went 
to  it.  The  half-castes  treated  Lawson  quite  differ- 
ently now.  His  marriage  had  made  him  one  of 
themselves  and  they  called  him  Bertie.  They  put 
their  arms  through  his  and  smacked  him  on  the  back. 


168  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

He  liked  to  see  Ethel  at  these  gatherings.  Her 
eyes  shone  and  she  laughed.  It  did  him  good  to  see 
her  radiant  happiness.  Sometimes  Ethel's  relations 
would  come  to  the  bungalow,  old  Brevald  of  course, 
and  her  mother,  but  cousins  too,  vague  native  women 
in  Mother  Hubbards  and  men  and  boys  in  lava- 
lavas,  with  their  hair  dyed  red  and  their  bodies 
elaborately  tattooed.  He  would  find  them  sitting 
there  when  he  got  back  from  the  bank.  He  laughed 
indulgently. 

"Don't  let  them  eat  us  out  of  hearth  and  home," 
he  said. 

"They're  my  own  family.  I  can't  help  doing 
something  for  them  when  they  ask  me." 

He  knew  that  when  a  white  man  marries  a  native 
or  a  half-caste  he  must  expect  her  relations  to  look 
upon  him  as  a  gold  mine.  He  took  Ethel's  face  in 
his  hands  and  kissed  her  red  lips.  Perhaps  he  could 
not  expect  her  to  understand  that  the  salary  which 
had  amply  sufficed  for  a  bachelor  must  be  managed 
with  some  care  when  it  had  to  support  a  wife  and 
a  house.  Then  Ethel  was  delivered  of  a  son. 

It  was  when  Lawson  first  held  the  child  in  his 
arms  that  a  sudden  pang  shot  through  his  heart. 
He  had  not  expected  it  to  be  so  dark.  After  all  it 
had  but  a  fourth  part  of  native  blood,  and  there 
was  no  reason  really  why  it  should  not  look  just 
like  an  English  baby;  but,  huddled  together  in  his 
arms,  sallow,  its  head  covered  already  with  black 
hair,  with  huge  black  eyes,  it  might  have  been  a 
native  child.  Since  his  marriage  he  had  been  ignored 
by  the  white  ladies  of  the  colony.  When  he  came 


THE  POOL  169 

across  men  in  whose  houses  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  dine  as  a  bachelor,  they  were  a  little  self-con- 
scious with  him;  and  they  sought  to  cover  their  em- 
barrassment by  an  exaggerated  cordiality. 

"Mrs  Lawson  well?"  they  would  say.  "You're 
a  lucky  fellow.  Damned  pretty  girl." 

But  if  they  were  with  their  wives  and  met  him 
and  Ethel  they  would  feel  it  awkward  when  their 
wives  gave  Ethel  a  patronising  nod.  Lawson  had 
laughed. 

"They're  as  dull  as  ditchwater,  the  whole  gang 
of  them,"  he  said.  "It's  not  going  to  disturb  my 
night's  rest  if  they  don't  ask  me  to  their  dirty 
parties." 

But  now  it  irked  him  a  little. 

The  little  dark  baby  screwed  up  its  face.  That 
was  his  son.  He  thought  of  the  half-caste  children 
in  Apia.  They  had  an  unhealthy  look,  sallow  and 
pale,  and  they  were  odiously  precocious.  He  had 
seen  them  on  the  boat  going  to  school  in  New 
Zealand,  and  a  school  had  to  be  chosen  which  took 
children  with  native  blood  in  them;  they  were 
huddled  together,  brazen  and  yet  timid,  with  traits 
which  set  them  apart  strangely  from  white  people. 
They  spoke  the"  native  language  among  themselves. 
And  when  they  grew  up  the  men  accepted  smaller 
salaries  because  of  their  native  blood;  girls  might 
marry  a  white  man,  but  boys  had  no  chance;  they 
must  marry  a  half-caste  like  themselves  or  a  native. 
Lawson  made  up  his  mind  passionately  that  he  would 
take  his  son  away  from  the  humiliation  of  such  a 
life.  At  whatever  cost  he  must  get  back  to  Europe. 


170  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

And  when  he  went  in  to  see  Ethel,  frail  and  lovely 
in  her  bed,  surrounded  by  native  women,  his  de- 
termination was  strengthened.  If  he  took  her  away 
among  his  own  people  she  would  belong  more  com- 
pletely to  him.  He  loved  her  so  passionately,  he 
wanted  her  to  be  one  soul  and  one  body  with  him; 
and  he  was  conscious  that  here,  with  those  deep 
roots  attaching  her  to  the  native  life,  she  would  al- 
ways keep  something  from  him. 

He  went  to  work  quietly,  urged  by  an  obscure 
instinct  of  secrecy,  and  wrote  to  a  cousin  who  was 
partner  in  a  shipping  firm  in  Aberdeen,  saying  that 
his  health  (on  account  of  which  like  so  many  more 
he  had  come  out  to  the  islands)  was  so  much  bet- 
ter, there  seemed  no  reason  why  he  should  not  re- 
turn to  Europe.  He  asked  him  to  use  what  influence 
he  could  to  get  him  a  job,  no  matter  how  poorly 
paid,  on  Deeside,  where  the  climate  was  particularly 
suitable  to  such  as  suffered  from  diseases  of  the 
lungs.  It  takes  five  or  six  weeks  for  letters  to  get 
from  Aberdeen  to  Samoa,  and  several  had  to  be 
exchanged.  He  had  plenty  of  time  to  prepare  Ethel. 
She  was  as  delighted  as  a  child.  He  was  amused  to 
see  how  she  boasted  to  her  friends  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  England;  it  was  a  step  up  for  her;  she  would 
be  quite  English  there;  and  she  was  excited  at  the 
interest  the  approaching  departure  gave  her.  When 
at  length  a  cable  came  offering  him  a  post  in  a  bank 
in  Kincardineshire  she  was  beside  herself  with  joy. 

When,  their  long  journey  over,  they  were  settled 
in  the  little  Scots  town  with  its  granite  houses  Law- 
son  realised  how  much  it  meant  to  him  to  live  once 


THE  POOL  171 

more  among  his  own  people.  He  looked  back  on 
the  three  years  he  had  spent  in  Apia  as  exile,  and 
returned  to  the  life  that  seemed  the  only  normal  one 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  good  to  play  golf 
once  more,  and  to  fish — to  fish  properly,  that  was 
poor  fun  in  the  Pacific  when  you  just  threw  in  your 
line  and  pulled  out  one  big  sluggish  fish  after  an- 
other from  the  crowded  sea — and  it  was  good  to 
see  a  paper  every  day  with  that  day's  news,  and  to 
meet  men  and  women  of  your  own  sort,  people  you 
could  talk  to;  and  it  was  good  to  eat  meat  that  was 
not  frozen  and  to  drink  milk  that  was  not  canned. 
They  were  thrown  upon  their  own  resources  much 
more  than  in  the  Pacific,  and  he  was  glad  to  have 
Ethel  exclusively  to  himself.  After  two  years  of 
marriage  he  loved  her  more  devotedly  than  ever, 
he  could  hardly  bear  her  out  of  his  sight,  and  the 
need  in  him  grew  urgent  for  a  more  intimate  com- 
munion between  them.  But  it  was  strange  that  after 
the  first  excitement  of  arrival  she  seemed  to  take  less 
interest  in  the  new  life  than  he  had  expected.  She 
did  not  accustom  herself  to  her  surroundings.  She 
was  a  little  lethargic.  As  the  fine  autumn  darkened 
into  winter  she  complained  of  the  cold.  She  lay 
half  the  morning  in  bed  and  the  rest  of  the  day  on 
a  sofa,  reading  novels  sometimes,  but  more  often 
doing  nothing.  She  looked  pinched. 

"Never  mind,  darling,"  he  said.  "You'll  get 
used  to  it  very  soon.  And  wait  till  the  summer 
comes.  It  can  be  almost  as  hot  as  in  Apia." 

He  felt  better  and  stronger  than  he  had  done  for 
years. 


172  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

The  carelessness  with  which  she  managed  her 
house  had  not  mattered  in  Samoa,  but  here  it  was 
out  of  place.  When  anyone  came  he  did  not  want 
the  place  to  look  untidy;  and,  laughing,  chaffing 
Ethel  a  little,  he  set  about  putting  things  in  order. 
Ethel  watched  him  indolently.  She  spent  long  hours 
playing  with  her  son.  She  talked  to  him  in  the 
baby  language  of  her  own  country.  To  distract 
her,  Lawson  bestirred  himself  to  make  friends  among 
the  neighbours,  and  now  and  then  they  went  to  little 
parties  where  the  ladles  sang  drawing-room  ballads 
and  the  men  beamed  in  silent  good  nature.  Ethel 
was  shy.  She  seemed  to  sit  apart.  Sometimes  Law- 
son,  seized  with  a  sudden  anxiety,  would  ask  her 
if  she  was  happy. 

"Yes,  I'm  quite  happy,"  she  answered. 

But  her  eyes  were  veiled  by  some  thought  he  could 
not  guess.  She  seemed  to  withdraw  into  herself  so 
that  he  was  conscious  that  he  knew  no  more  of  her 
than  when  he  had  first  seen  her  bathing  in  the  pool. 
He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  she  was  concealing 
something  from  him,  and  because  he  adored  her  it 
tortured  him. 

"You  don't  regret  Apia,  do  you?"  he  asked  her 
once. 

"Oh,  no — I  think  it's  very  nice  here." 

An  obscure  misgiving  drove  him  to  make  dis- 
paraging remarks  about  the  island  and  the  people 
there.  She  smiled  and  did  not  answer.  Very  rarely 
she  received  a  bundle  of  letters  from  Samoa  and 
then  she  went  about  for  a  day  or  two  with  a  set, 
pale  face. 


THE  POOL  173 

"Nothing  would  induce  me  ever  to  go  back  there," 
he  said  once.  ''It's  no  place  for  a  white  man." 

But  he  grew  conscious  that  sometimes,  when  he 
was  away,  Ethel  cried.  In  Apia  she  had  been 
talkative,  chatting  volubly  about  all  the  little  details 
of  their  common  life,  the  gossip  of  the  place;  but 
now  she  gradually  became  silent,  and,  though  he 
increased  his  efforts  to  amuse  her,  she  remained 
listless.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  recollections  of 
the  old  life  were  drawing  her  away  from  him,  and 
he  was  madly  jealous  of  the  island  and  of  the  sea, 
of  Brevald,  and  all  the  dark-skinned  people  whom 
he  remembered  now  with  horror.  When  she  spoke 
of  Samoa  he  was  bitter  and  satirical.  One  evening 
late  in  the  spring  when  the  birch  trees  were  bursting 
into  leaf,  coming  home  from  a  round  of  golf,  he 
found  her  not  as  usual  lying  on  the  sofa,  but  at  the 
window,  standing.  She  had  evidently  been  waiting 
for  his  return.  She  addressed  him  the  moment  he 
came  into  the  room.  To  his  amazement  she  spoke 
in  Samoan. 

"I  can't  stand  it.  I  can't  live  here  any  more.  I 
hate  it.  I  hate  it." 

"For  God's  sake  speak  in  a  civilised  language," 
he  said  irritably. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  clasped  her  arms  around 
his  body  awkwardly,  with  a  gesture  that  had  in  it 
something  barbaric, 

"Let's  go  away  from  here.  Let's  go  back  to 
Samoa.  If  you  make  me  stay  here  I  shall  die.  I 
want  to  go  home." 

Her  passion  broke  suddenly  and  she  burst  into 


174  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

tears.  His  anger  vanished  and  he  drew  her  down 
on  his  knees.  He  explained  to  her  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  throw  up  his  job,  which  after 
all  meant  his  bread  and  butter.  His  place  in  Apia 
was  long  since  filled.  He  had  nothing  to  go  back 
to  there.  He  tried  to  put  it  to  her  reasonably,  the 
inconveniences  of  life  there,  the  humiliation  to  which 
they  must  be  exposed,  and  the  bitterness  it  must 
cause  their  son. 

"Scotland's  wonderful  for  education  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Schools  are  good  and  cheap,  and  he  can 
go  to  the  University  at  Aberdeen.  I'll  make  a  real 
Scot  of  him." 

They  had  called  him  Andrew.  Lawson  wanted 
him  to  become  a  doctor.  He  would  marry  a  white 
woman. 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  being  half  native,"  Ethel 
said  sullenly. 

"Of  course  not,  darling.  There's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of." 

With  her  soft  cheek  against  his  he  felt  incredibly 
weak. 

"You  don't  know  how  much  I  love  you,"  he  said. 
"I'd  give  anything  in  the  world  to  be  able  to  tell 
you  what  I've  got  in  my  heart." 

He  sought  her  lips. 

The  summer  came.  The  highland  valley  was 
green  and  fragrant,  and  the  hills  were  gay  with  the 
heather.  One  sunny  day  followed  another  in  that 
sheltered  spot,  and  the  shade  of  the  birch  trees  was 
grateful  after  the  glare  of  the  high  road.  Ethel 
spoke  no  more  of  Samoa  and  Lawson  grew  less 


THE  POOL  175 

nervous.  He  thought  that  she  was  resigned  to  her 
surroundings,  and  he  felt  that  his  love  for  her  was 
so  passionate  that  it  could  leave  no  room  in  her  heart 
for  any  longing.  One  day  the  local  doctor  stopped 
him  in  the  street. 

"I  say,  Lawson,  your  missus  ought  to  be  careful 
how  she  bathes  in  our  highland  streams.  It's  not 
like  the  Pacific,  you  know." 

Lawson  was  surprised,  and  had  not  the  presence 
of  mind  to  conceal  the  fact. 

"I  didn't  know  she  was  bathing." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"A  good  many  people  have  seen  her.  It  makes 
them  talk  a  bit,  you  know,  because  it  seems  a  rum 
place  to  choose,  the  pool  up  above  the  bridge,  and 
bathing  isn't  allowed  there,  but  there's  no  harm  in 
that.  I  don't  know  how  she  can  stand  the  water." 

Lawson  knew  the  pool  the  doctor  spoke  of,  and 
suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  in  a  way  it  was 
just  like  that  pool  at  Upolu  where  Ethel  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  bathing  every  evening.  A  clear  high- 
land stream  ran  down  a  sinuous  course,  rocky, 
splashing  gaily,  and  then  formed  a  deep,  smooth 
pool,  with  a  little  sandy  beach.  Trees  overshadowed 
it  thickly,  not  coconut  trees,  but  beeches,  and  the 
sun  played  fitfully  through  the  leaves  on  the 
sparkling  water.  It  gave  him  a  shock.  With  his 
imagination  he  saw  Ethel  go  there  every  day  and 
undress  on  the  bank  and  slip  into  the  water,  cold, 
colder  than  that  of  the  pool  she  loved  at  home,  and 
for  a  moment  regain  the  feeling  of  the  past.  He 
saw  her  once  more  as  the  strange,  wild  spirit  of 


176  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

the  stream,  and  it  seemed  to  him  fantastically  that 
the  running  water  called  her.  That  afternoon  he 
went  along  to  the  river.  He  made  his  way  cautiously 
among  the  trees  and  the  grassy  path  deadened  the 
sound  of  his  steps.  Presently  he  came  to  a  spot 
from  which  he  could  see  the  pool.  Ethel  was  sitting 
on  the  bank,  looking  down  at  the  water.  She  sat 
quite  still.  It  seemed  as  though  the  water  drew  her 
irresistibly.  He  wondered  what  strange  thoughts 
wandered  through  her  head.  At  last  she  got  up, 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  she  was  hidden  from  his 
gaze;  then  he  saw  her  again,  wearing  a  Mother 
Hubbard,  and  with  her  little  bare  feet  she  stepped 
delicately  over  the  mossy  bank.  She  came  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  softly,  without  a  splash,  let  her- 
self down.  She  swam  about  quietly,  and  there  was 
something  not  quite  of  a  human  being  in  the  way 
she  swam.  He  did  not  know  why  it  affected  him 
so  queerly.  He  waited  till  she  clambered  out.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  with  the  wet  folds  of  her  dress 
clinging  to  her  body,  so  that  its  shape  was  outlined, 
and  then,  passing  her  hands  slowly  over  her  breasts, 
gave  a  little  sigh  of  delight.  Then  she  disappeared. 
Lawson  turned  away  and  walked  back  to  the  vil- 
lage. He  had  a  bitter  pain  in  his  heart,  for  he 
knew  that  she  was  still  a  stranger  to  him  and  his 
hungry  love  was  destined  ever  to  remain  unsatis- 
fied. 

He  did  not  make  any  mention  of  what  he  had 
seen.  He  ignored  the  incident  completely,  but  he 
looked  at  her  curiously,  trying  to  divine  what  was 
in  her  mind.  He  redoubled  the  tenderness  with 


THE  POOL  177 

which  he  used  her.  He  sought  to  make  her  forget 
the  deep  longing  of  her  soul  by  the  passion  of  his 
love. 

Then  one  day,  when  he  came  home,  ,he  was 
astonished  to  find  her  not  in  the  house. 

"Where's  Mrs  Lawson?"  he  asked  the  maid. 

"She  went  into  Aberdeen,  Sir,  with  the  baby," 
the  maid  answered,  a  little  surprised  at  the  question. 
"She  said  she  would  not  be  back  till  the  last  train." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

He  was  vexed  that  Ethel  had  said  nothing  to  him 
about  the  excursion,  but  he  was  not  disturbed,  since 
of  late  she  had  been  in  now  and  again  to  Aberdeen, 
and  he  was  glad  that  she  should  look  at  the  shops 
and  perhaps  visit  a  cinema.  He  went  to  meet  the 
last  train,  but  when  she  did  not  come  he  grew  sud- 
denly frightened.  He  went  up  to  the  bedroom  and 
saw  at  once  that  her  toilet  things  were  no  longer 
in  their  place.  He  opened  the  wardrobe  and  the 
drawers.  They  were  half  empty.  She  had  bolted. 

He  was  seized  with  a  passion  of  anger.  It  was 
too  late  that  night  to  telephone  to  Aberdeen  and 
make  enquiries,  but  he  knew  already  all  that  his 
enquiries  might  have  taught  V;m.  With  fiendish 
cunning  she  had  chosen  a  time  when  they  were 
making  up  their  periodical  accounts  at  the  bank 
and  there  was  no  chance  that  he  could  follow  her. 
He  was  imprisoned  by  his  work.  He  took  up  a 
paper  and  saw  that  there  was  a  boat  sailing  for 
Australia  next  morning.  She  must  be  now  well  on 
the  way  to  London.  He  could  not  prevent  the  sobs 
that  were  wrung  painfully  from  him. 


178  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"I've  done  everything  in  the  world  for  her,"  he 
cried,  "and  she  had  the  heart  to  treat  me  like  this. 
How  cruel,  how  monstrously  cruel !" 

After  two  days  of  misery  he  received  a  letter  from 
her.  It  was  written  in  her  school-girl  hand.  She 
had  always  written  with  difficulty: 

Dear  Bertie'. 

I  couldn't  stand  it  any  more.  I'm  going  back  home. 
Good-bye. 

Ethel. 

She  did  not  say  a  single  word  of  regret.  She 
did  not  even  ask  him  to  come  too.  Lawson  was 
prostrated.  He  found  out  where  the  ship  made  its 
first  stop  and,  though  he  knew  very  well  she  would 
not  come,  sent  a  cable  beseeching  her  to  return.  He 
waited  with  pitiful  anxiety.  He  wanted  her  to  send 
him  just  one  word  of  love;  she  did  not  even  answer. 
He  passed  through  one  violent  phase  after  another. 
At  one  moment  he  told  himself  that  he  was  well  rid 
of  her,  and  at  the  next  that  he  would  force  her  to 
return  by  withholding  money.  He  was  lonely  and 
wretched.  He  wanted  his  boy  and  he  wanted  her. 
He  knew  that,  whatever  he  pretended  to  himself, 
there  was  only  one  thing  to  do  and  that  was  to  follow 
her.  He  could  never  live  without  her  now.  All  his 
plans  for  the  future  were  like  a  house  of  cards  and 
he  scattered  them  with  angry  impatience.  He  did 
not  care  whether  he  threw  away  his  chances  for  the 
future,  for  nothing  in  the  world  mattered  but  that 
he  should  get  Ethel  back  again.  As  soon  as  he  could 
he  went  into  Aberdeen  and  told  the  manager  of  his 


THE  POOL  179 

bank  that  he  meant  to  leave  at  once.  The  manager 
remonstrated.  The  short  notice  was  inconvenient. 
Lawson  would  not  listen  to  reason.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  be  free  before  the  next  boat  sailed;  and 
it  was  not  until  he  was  on  board  of  her,  having  sold 
everything  he  possessed,  that  in  some  measure  he 
regained  his  calm.  Till  then  to  those  who  had  come 
in  contact  with  him  he  seemed  hardly  sane.  His 
last  action  in  England  was  to  cable  to  Ethel  at  Apia 
that  he  was  joining  her. 

He  sent  another  cable  from  Sydney,  and  when  at 
last  with  the  dawn  his  boat  crossed  the  bar  at  Apia 
and  he  saw  once  more  the  white  houses  straggling 
along  the  bay  he  felt  an  immense  relief.  The  doc- 
tor came  on  board  and  the  agent.  They  were  both 
old  acquaintances  and  he  felt  kindly  towards  their 
familiar  faces.  He  had  a  drink  or  two  with  them 
for  old  times'  sake,  and  also  because  he  was  desper- 
ately nervous.  He  was  not  sure  if  Ethel  would  be 
glad  to  see  him.  When  he  got  into  the  launch  and 
approached  the  wharf  he  scanned  anxiously  the  little 
crowd  that  waited.  She  was  not  there  and  his  heart 
sank,  but  then  he  saw  Brevald,  in  his  old  blue 
clothes,  and  his  heart  warmed  towards  him. 

w  Where's  Ethel?"  he  said,  as  he  jumped  on  shore. 

"She's  down  at  the  bungalow.  She's  living  with 
us." 

Lawson  was  dismayed,  but  he  put  on  a  jovial  air. 

"Well,  have  you  got  room  for  me?  I  daresay 
it'll  take  a  week  or  two  to  fix  ourselves  up." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  guess  we  can  make  room  for  you." 

After  passing  through  the  custom-house  they  went 


180  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  the  hotel  and  there  Lawson  was  greeted  by  sev» 
eral  of  his  old  friends.  There  were  a  good  many 
rounds  of  drinks  before  it  seemed  possible  to  get 
away  and  when  they  did  go  out  at  last  to  Brevald's 
house  they  were  both  rather  gay.  He  clasped  Ethel 
in  his  arms.  He  had  forgotten  all  his  bitter  thoughts 
in  the  joy  of  beholding  her  once  more.  His  mother- 
in-law  was  pleased  to  see  him,  and  so  was  the  old, 
wrinkled  beldame,  her  mother;  natives  and  half- 
castes  came  in,  and  they  all  sat  round,  beaming  on 
him.  Brevald  had  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  everyone 
who  came  was  given  a  nip.  Lawson  sat  with  his 
little  dark-skinned  boy  on  his  knees,  they  had  taken 
his  English  clothes  off  him  and  he  was  stark,  with 
Ethel  by  his  side  in  a  Mother  Hubbard.  He  felt 
like  a  returning  prodigal.  In  the  afternoon  he  went 
down  to  the  hotel  again  and  when  he  got  back  he  was 
more  than  gay,  he  was  drunk.  Ethel  and  her  mother 
knew  that  white  men  got  drunk  now  and  then,  it 
was  what  you  expected  of  them,  and  they  laughed 
good-naturedly  as  they  helped  him  to  bed. 

But  in  a  day  or  two  he  set  about  looking  for  a 
job.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  hope  for  such  a 
position  as  that  which  he  had  thrown  away  to  go  to 
England;  but  with  his  training  he  could  not  fail  to 
be  useful  to  one  of  the  trading  firms,  and  perhaps  in 
the  end  he  would  not  lose  by  the  change. 

"After  all,  you  can't  make  money  in  a  bank,"  he 
said.  "Trade's  the  thing." 

He  had  hopes  that  he  would  soon  make  himself 
so  indispensable  that  he  would  get  someone  to  take 


THE  POOL  181 

him  into  partnership,  and  there  was  no  reason  why 
in  a  few  year^  he  should  not  be  a  rich  man. 

"As  soon  as  I'm  fixed  up  we'll  find  ourselves  a 
shack,"  he  told  Ethel.  "We  can't  go  on  living 
here." 

Brevald's  bungalow  was  so  small  that  they  were 
all  piled  on  one  another,  and  there  was  no  chance  of 
ever  being  alone.  There  was  neither  peace  nor 
privacy. 

"Well,  there's  no  hurry.  We  shall  be  all  right 
here  till  we  find  just  what  we  want." 

It  took  him  a  week  to  get  settled  and  then  he 
entered  the  firm  of  a  man  called  Bain.  But  when 
he  talked  to  Ethel  about  moving  she  said  she  wanted 
to  stay  where  she  was  till  her  baby  was  born,  for 
she  was  expecting  another  child.  Lawson  tried  to 
argue  with  her. 

"If  you  don't  like  it,"  she  said,  "go  and  live  at 
the  hotel." 

He  grew  suddenly  pale. 

"Ethel,  how  can  you  suggest  that!'* 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What's  the  good  of  having  a  house  of  our  own 
when  we  can  live  here." 

He  yielded. 

When  Lawson,  after  his  work,  went  back  to  the 
bungalow  he  found  it  crowded  with  natives.  They 
lay  about  smoking,  sleeping,  drinking  kava;  and 
they  talked  incessantly.  The  place  was  grubby  and 
untidy.  His  child  crawled  about,  playing  with  native 
children,  and  it  heard  nothing  spoken  but  Samoan. 
He  fell  into  the  habit  of  dropping  into  the  hotel  on 


182  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

his  way  home  to  have  a  few  cocktails,  for  he  could 
only  face  the  evening  and  the  crowd  of  friendly 
natives  when  he  was  fortified  with  liquor.  And  all 
the  time,  though  he  loved  her  more  passionately 
than  ever,  he  felt  that  Ethel  was  slipping  away  from 
him.  When  the  baby  was  born  he  suggested  that 
they  should  get  into  a  house  of  their  own,  but  Ethel 
refused.  Her  stay  in  Scotland  seemed  to  have 
thrown  her  back  on  her  own  people,  now  that  she 
was  once  more  among  them,  with  a  passionate  zest, 
and  she  turned  to  her  native  ways  with  abandon. 
Lawson  began  to  drink  more.  Every  Saturday  night 
he  went  to  the  English  Club  and  got  blind  drunk. 

He  had  the  peculiarity  that  as  he  grew  drunk  he 
grew  quarrelsome  and  once  he  had  a  violent  dispute 
with  Bain,  his  employer.  Bain  dismissed  him,  and 
he  had  to  look  out  for  another  job.  He  was  idle 
for  two  or  three  weeks  and  during  these,  sooner 
than  sit  in  the  bungalow,  he  lounged  about  in  the 
hotel  or  at  the  English  Club,  and  drank.  It  was 
more  out  of  pity  than  anything  else  that  Miller, 
the  German-American,  took  him  into  his  office;  but 
he  was  a  business  man,  and  though  Lawson's 
financial  skill  made  him  valuable,  the  circumstances 
were  such  that  he  could  hardly  refuse  a  smaller 
salary  than  he  had  had  before,  and  Miller  did  not 
hesitate  to  offer  it  to  him.  Ethel  and  Brevald  blamed 
him  for  taking  it,  since  Pedersen,  the  half-caste, 
offered  him  more.  But  he  resented  bitterly  the 
thought  of  being  under  the  orders  of  a  half-caste. 
When  Ethel  nagged  him  he  burst  out  furiously: 

"I'll  see  myself  dead  before  I  work  for  a  nigger." 


THE  POOL  183 

"You  may  have  to,"  she  said. 

And  in  six  months  he  found  himself  forced  to  this 
final  humiliation.  The  passion  for  liquor  had  been 
gaining  on  him,  he  was  often  heavy  with  drink,  and 
he  did  his  work  badly.  Miller  warned  him  once  or 
twice  and  Lawson  was  not  the  man  to  accept  remon- 
strance easily.  One  day  in  the  midst  of  an  alterca- 
tion he  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  out.  But  by  now 
his  reputation  was  well  known  and  he  could  find  no 
one  to  engage  him.  For  a  while  he  idled,  and  then 
he  had  an  attack  of  delirium  tremens.  When  he  re- 
covered, shameful  and  weak,  he  could  no  longer 
resist  the  constant  pressure  and  he  went  to  Pedersen 
and  asked  him  for  a  job.  Pedersen  was  glad  to 
have  a  white  man  in  his  store  and  Lawson's  skill  at 
figures  made  him  useful. 

From  that  time  his  degeneration  was  rapid.  The 
white  people  gave  him  the  cold  shoulder.  They 
were  only  prevented  from  cutting  him  completely  by 
disdainful  pity  and  by  a  certain  dread  of  his  angry 
violence  when  he  was  drunk.  He  became  extremely 
susceptible  and  was  always  on  the  lookout  for 
affront. 

He  lived  entirely  among  the  natives  and  half- 
castes,  but  he  had  no  longer  the  prestige  of  the  white 
man.  They  felt  his  loathing  for  them  and  they  re- 
sented his  attitude  of  superiority.  He  was  one  of 
themselves  now  and  they  did  not  see  why  he  should 
put  on  airs.  Brevald,  who  had  been  ingratiating 
and  obsequious,  now  treated  him  with  contempt. 
Ethel  had  made  a  bad  bargain.  There  were  dis- 
graceful scenes  and  once  or  twice  the  two  men  came 


184  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  blows.  When  there  was  a  quarrel  Ethel  took 
the  part  of  her  family.  They  found  he  was  better 
drunk  than  sober,  for  when  he  was  drunk  he  would 
lie  on  the  bed  or  on  the  floor,  sleeping  heavily. 

Then  he  became  aware  that  something  was  being 
hidden  from  him. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  bungalow  for  the 
wretched,  half  native  supper  which  was  his  evening 
meal,  often  Ethel  was  not  in.  If  he  asked  where 
she  was  Brevald  told  him  she  had  gone  to  spend  the 
evening  with  one  or  other  of  her  friends.  Once  he 
followed  her  to  the  house  Brevald  had  mentioned 
and  found  she  was  not  there.  On  her  return  he 
asked  her  where  she  had  been  and  she  told  him 
her  father  had  made  a  mistake;  she  had  been  to 
so-and-so's.  But  he  knew  that  she  was  lying.  She 
was  in  her  best  clothes;  her  eyes  were  shining,  and 
she  looked  lovely. 

"Don't  try  any  monkey  tricks  on  me,  my  girl,"  he 
said,  "or  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body." 

"You  drunken  beast,"  she  said,  scornfully. 

He  fancied  that  Mrs  Brevald  and  the  old  grand- 
mother looked  at  him  maliciously  and  he  ascribed 
Brevald's  good-humour  with  him,  so  unusual  those 
days,  to  his  satisfaction  at  having  something  up  his 
sleeve  against  his  son-in-law.  And  then,  his  sus- 
picions aroused,  he  imagined  that  the  white  men 
gave  him  curious  glances.  When  he  came  into  the 
lounge  of  the  hotel  the  sudden  silence  which  fell 
upon  the  company  convinced  him  that  he  had  been 
the  subject  of  the  conversation.  Something  was 
going  on  and  everyone  knew  it  but  himself.  He  was 


THE  POOL  185 

seized  with  furious  jealousy.  He  believed  that  Ethel 
was  carrying  on  with  one  of  the  white  men,  and  he 
looked  at  one  after  the  other  with  scrutinising  eyes; 
but  there  was  nothing  to  give  him  even  a  hint.  He 
was  helpless.  Because  he  could  find  no  one  on  whom 
definitely  to  fix  his  suspicions,  he  went  about  like  a 
raving  maniac,  looking  for  someone  on  whom  to  vent 
his  wrath.  Chance  caused  him  in  the  end  to  hit 
upon  the  man  who  of  all  others  least  deserved  to 
suffer  from  his  violence.  One  afternoon,  when  he 
was  sitting  in  the  hotel  by  himself,  moodily,  Chaplin 
came  in  and  sat  down  beside  him.  Perhaps  Chaplin 
was  the  only  man  on  the  island  who  had  any  sym- 
pathy for  him.  They  ordered  drinks  and  chatted 
a  few  minutes  about  the  races  that  were  shortly  to 
be  run.  Then  Chaplain  said: 

"I  guess  we  shall  all  have  to  fork  out  money  for 
new  dresses." 

Lawson  sniggered.  Since  Mrs.  Chaplin  held  the 
purse-strings  if  she  wanted  a  new  frock  for  the  occa- 
sion she  would  certainly  not  ask  her  husband  for  the 
money. 

"How  is  your  mrssus?"  asked  Chaplin,  desiring 
to  be  friendly. 

"What  the  hell's  that  got  to  do  with  you?"  said 
Lawson,  knitting  his  dark  brows. 

"I  was  only  asking  a  civil  question." 

"Well,  keep  your  civil  questions  to  yourself." 

Chaplin  was  not  a  patient  man;  his  long  residence 
in  the  tropics,  the  whisky  bottle,  and  his  domestic 
affairs  had  given  him  a  temper  hardly  more  under 
control  than  Lawson's. 


186  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Look  here,  my  boy,  when  you're  in  my  hotel  you 
behave  like  a  gentleman  or  you'll  find  yourself  in 
the  street  before  you  can  say  knife." 

Lawson's  lowering  face  grew  dark  and  red. 

"Let  me  just  tell  you  once  for  all  and  you 
can  pass  it  on  to  the  others,"  he  said,  panting  with 
rage.  "If  any  of  you  fellows  come  messing  round 
with  my  wife  he'd  better  look  out." 

"Who  do  you  think  wants  to  mess  around  with 
your  wife?" 

"I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think.  I  can  see  a 
stone  wall  in  front  of  me  as  well  as  most  men,  and 
I  warn  you  straight,  that's  all.  I'm  not  going  to  put 
up  with  any  hanky-panky,  not  on  your  life." 

"Look  here,  you'd  better  clear  out  of  here,  and 
come  back  when  you're  sober." 

"I  shall  clear  out  when  I  choose  and  not  a  minute 
before,*  said  Lawson. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  boast,  for  Chaplin  in  the 
course  of  his  experience  as  a  hotel-keeper  had  ac- 
quired a  peculiar  skill  in  dealing  with  gentlemen 
whose  room  he  preferred  to  their  company,  and  the 
words  were  hardly  out  of  Lawson's  mouth  before  he 
found  himself  caught  by  the  collar  and  arm  and 
hustled  not  without  force  into  the  street.  He 
stumbled  down  the  steps  into  the  blinding  glare  of 
the  sun. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  this  that  he  had  his  first 
violent  scene  with  Ethel.  Smarting  with  humiliation 
and  unwilling  to  go  back  to  the  hotel,  he  went  home 
that  afternoon  earlier  than  usual.  He  found  Ethel 
dressing  to  go  out.  As  a  rule  she  lay  about  in  a 


THE  POOL  187 

Mother  Hubbard,  barefoot,  with  a  flower  in  her 
dark  hair ;  but  now,  in  white  silk  stockings  and  high- 
heeled  shoes,  she  was  doing  up  a  pink  muslin  dress 
which  was  the  newest  she  had. 

"You're  making  yourself  very  smart,"  he  said. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  to  the  Crossleys." 

"I'll  come  with  you." 

"Why?"  she  asked  coolly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  gad  about  by  yourself  all 
the  time." 

"You're  not  asked." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  about  that.  You're  not  go- 
ing without  me." 

"You'd  better  lie  down  till  I'm  ready." 

She  thought  he  was  drunk  and  if  he  once  settled 
himself  on  the  bed  would  quickly  drop  off  to 
sleep.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  began  to  smoke 
a  cigarette.  She  watched  him  with  increasing  irrita- 
tion. When  she  was  ready  he  got  up.  It  happened 
by  an  unusual  chance  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
bungalow.  Brevald  was  working  on  the  plantation* 
and  his  wife  had  gone  into  Apia.  Ethel  faced  him. 

"I'm  not  going  with  you.    You're  drunk." 

"That's  a  lie.    You're  not  going  without  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  tried  to  pass 
him,  but  he  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  held  her. 

"Let  me  go,  you  devil,"  she  said,  breaking  into 
Samoan. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  without  me?  Haven't 
I  told  you  I'm  not  going  to  put  up  with  any  monkey 
tricks?" 


188  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

She  clenched  her  fist  and  hit  him  in  the  face.  He 
lost  all  control  of  himself.  All  his  love,  all  his 
hatred,  welled  up  in  him  and  he  was  beside  him- 
self. 

'Til  teach  you,"  he  shouted.    "I'll  teach  you." 

He  seized  a  riding-whip  which  happened  to  be 
under  his  hand,  and  struck  her  with  it.  She 
screamed,  and  the  scream  maddened  him  so  that 
he  went  on  striking  her,  again  and  again.  Her 
shrieks  rang  through  the  bungalow  and  he  cursed 
her  as  he  hit.  Then  he  flung  her  on  the  bed  She 
lay  there  sobbing  with  pain  and  terror.  He  threw 
the  whip  away  from  him  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
Ethel  heard  him  go  and  she  stopped  crying.  She 
looked  round  cautiously,  then  she  raised  herself. 
She  was  sore,  but  she  had  not  been  badly  hurt,  and 
she  looked  at  her  dress  to  see  if  it  was  damaged. 
The  native  women  are  not  unused  to  blows.  What 
he  had  done  did  not  outrage  her.  When  she  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass  and  arranged  her  hair,  her 
eyes  were  shining.  There  was  a  strange  look  in 
them.  Perhaps  then  she  was  nearer  loving  him  than 
she  ha'd  ever  been  before. 

But  Lawson,  driven  forth  blindly,  stumbled 
through  the  plantation  and  suddenly  exhausted, 
weak  as  a  child,  flung  himself  on  the  ground  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree.  He  was  miserable  and  ashamed. 
He  thought  of  Ethel,  and  in  the  yielding  tenderness 
of  his  love  all  his  bones  seemed  to  grow  soft  within 
him.  He  thought  of  the  past,  and  of  his  hopes, 
and  he  was  aghast  at  what  he  had  done.  He  wanted 
her  more  than  ever.  He  wanted  to  take  her  in  his 


THE  POOL  189 

arms.  He  must  go  to  her  at  once.  He  got  up.  He 
was  so  weak  that  he  staggered  as  he  walked.  He 
went  into  the  house  and  she  was  sitting  in  their 
cramped  bedroom  in  front  of  her  looking-glass. 

"Oh,  Ethel,  forgive  me.  I'm  so  awfully  ashamed 
of  myself.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing." 

He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her  and  timidly 
stroked  the  skirt  of  her  dress. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  what  I  did.  It's  awful. 
I  think  I  was  mad.  There's  no  one  in  the  world  I 
love  as  I  love  you.  I'd  do  anything  to  save  you 
from  pain  and  I've  hurt  you.  I  can  never  forgive 
myself,  but  for  God's  sake  say  you  forgive  me." 

He  heard  her  shrieks  still.  It  was  unendurable. 
She  looked  at  him  silently.  He  tried  to  take  her 
hands  and  the  tears  streamed  from  his  eyes.  In 
his  humiliation  he  hid  his  face  in  her  lap  and  his 
frail  body  shook  with  sobs.  An  expression  of  utter 
contempt  came  over  her  face.  She  had  the  native 
woman's  disdain  of  a  man  who  abased  himself  be- 
fore a  woman.  A  weak  creature!  And  for  a  mo- 
ment she  had  been  on  the  point  of  thinking  there 
was  something  in  him.  He  grovelled  at  her  feet  like 
a  cur.  She  gave  him  a  little  scornful  kick. 

"Get  out,"  she  said.    "I  hate  you." 

He  tried  to  hold  her,  but  she  pushed  him  aside. 
She  stood  up.  She  began  to  take  off  her  dress.  She 
kicked  off  her  shoes  and  slid  the  stockings  off  her 
feet,  then  she  slipped  on  her  old  Mother  Hubbard. 

"Where  are  you  going?"' 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  you?  I'm  going 
down  to  the  pool." 


190  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Let  me  come  too,"  he  said. 

He  asked  as  though  he  were  a  child. 

"Can't  you  even  leave  me  that?" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  crying  miserably, 
while  she,  her  eyes  hard  and  cold,  stepped  past  him 
and  went  out. 

From  that  time  she  entirely  despised  him;  and 
though,  herded  together  in  the  small  bungalow,  Law- 
son  and  Ethel  with  her  two  children,  Brevald,  his 
wife  and  her  mother,  and  the  vague  relations  and 
hangers-on  who  were  always  in  and  about,  they  had 
to  live  cheek  by  jowl,  Lawson,  ceasing  to  be  of  any 
account,  was  hardly  noticed.  He  left  in  the  morn- 
ing after  breakfast,  and  came  back  only  to  have 
supper.  He  gave  up  the  struggle,  and  when  for 
want  of  money  he  could  not  go  to  the  English  Club 
he  spent  the  evening  playing  hearts  with  old  Brevald 
and  the  natives.  Except  when  he  was  drunk  he 
was  cowed  and  listless.  Ethel  treated  him  like  a 
dog.  She  submitted  at  times  to  his  fits  of  wild  pas- 
sion, and  she  was  frightened  by  the  gusts  of  hatred 
with  which  they  were  followed;  but  when,  after- 
wards, he  was  cringing  and  lachrymose  she  had 
such  a  contempt  for  him  that  she  could  have  spat 
in  his  face.  Sometimes  he  was  violent,  but  now  she 
was  prepared  for  him,  and  when  he  hit  her  she 
kicked  and  scratched  and  bit.  They  had  horrible 
battles  in  which  he  had  not  always  the  best  of  it. 
Very  soon  it  was  known  all  over  Apia  that  they  got 
on  badly.  There  was  little  sympathy  for  Lawson, 
and  at  the  hotel  the  general  surprise  was  that  old 
Brevald  did  not  kick  him  out  of  the  place. 


THE  POOL  191 

"Brevald's  a  pretty  ugly  customer,"  said  one  of 
the  men.  "I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  put  a  bullet 
into  Lawson's  carcass  one  of  these  days." 

Ethel  still  went  in  the  evenings  to  bathe  in  the 
silent  pool.  It  seemed  to  have  an  attraction  for 
her  that  was  not  quite  human,  just  that  attraction 
you  might  imagine  that  a  mermaid  who  had  won  a 
soul  would  have  for  the  cool  salt  waves  of  the  sea; 
and  sometimes  Lawson  went  also.  I  do  not  know 
what  urged  him  to  go,  for  Ethel  was  obviously  irri- 
tated by  his  presence;  perhaps  it  was  because  in 
that  spot  he  hoped  to  regain  the  clean  rapture  which 
had  filled  his  heart  when  first  he  saw  her;  per- 
haps only,  with  the  madness  of  those  who  love  them 
that  love  them  not,  from  the  feeling  that  his 
obstinacy  could  force  love.  One  day  he  strolled 
down  there  with  a  feeling  that  was  rare  with  him 
now.  He  felt  suddenly  at  peace  with  the  world. 
The  evening  was  drawing  in  and  the  dusk  seemed  to 
cling  to  the  leaves  of  the  coconut  trees  like  a  little 
thin  cloud.  A  faint  breeze  stirred  them  noiselessly. 
A  crescent  moon  hung  just  over  their  tops.  He 
made  his  way  to  the  bank.  He  saw  Ethel  in  the 
water  floating  on  her  back.  Her  hair  streamed  out 
all  round  her,  and  she  was  holding  in  her  hand  a 
large  hibiscus.  He  stopped  a  moment  to  admire 
her;  she  was  like  Ophelia. 

"Hulloa,  Ethel,"  he  cried  joyfully. 

She  made  a  sudden  movement  and  dropped  the 
red  flower.  It  floated  idly  away.  She  swam  a 
stroke  or  two  till  she  knew  there  was  ground  within 
her  depth  and  then  stood  up. 


192  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Go  away,"  she  said.    "Go  away." 

He  laughed. 

"Don't  be  selfish.  There's  plenty  of  room  for 
both  of  us." 

"Why  can't  you  leave  me  alone?  I  want  to  be  by 
myself." 

"Hang  it  all,  I  want  to  bathe,"  he  answered, 
good-humouredly. 

"Go  down  to  the  bridge.  I  don't  want  you 
here." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  said,  smiling  still. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  angry,  and  he  hardly 
noticed  that  she  was  in  a  passion.  He  began  to  take 
off  his  coat. 

"Go  away,"  she  shrieked.  "I  won't  have  you 
here.  Can't  you  even  leave  me  this?  Go  away." 

"Don't  be  silly,  darling." 

She  bent  down  and  picked  up  a  sharp  stone  and 
flung  it  quickly  at  him.  He  had  no  time  to  duck. 
It  hit  him  on  the  temple.  With  a  cry  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  head  and  when  he  took  it  away  it  was 
wet  with  blood.  Ethel  stood  still,  panting  with 
rage.  He  turned  very  pale,  and  without  a  word, 
taking  up  his  coat,  went  away.  Ethel  let  herself 
fall  back  into  the  water  and  the  stream  carried  her 
slowly  down  to  the  ford. 

The  stone  had  made  a  jagged  wound  and  for 
some  days  Lawson  went  about  with  a  bandaged 
head.  He  had  invented  a  likely  story  to  account 
for  the  accident  when  the  fellows  at  the  club  asked 
him  about  it,  but  he  had  no  occasion  to  use  it.  No 
one  referred  to  the  matter.  He  saw  them  cast  sur- 


THE  POOL  193 

reptltious  glances  at  his  head,  but  not  a  word  was 
said.  The  silence  could  only  mean  that  they  knew 
how  he  came  by  his  wound.  He  was  certain  now 
that  Ethel  had  a  lover,  and  they  all  knew  who  it  was. 
But  there  was  not  the  smallest  indication  to  guide 
him.  He  never  saw  Ethel  with  anyone;  no  one 
showed  a  wish  to  be  with  her,  or  treated  him  in  a 
manner  that  seemed  strange.  Wild  rage  seized  him, 
and  having  no  one  to  vent  it  on  he  drank  more  and 
more  heavily.  A  little  while  before  I  came  to  the 
island  he  had  had  another  attack  of  delirium  tre- 
mens. 

I  met  Ethel  at  the  house  of  a  man  called  Caster, 
who  lived  two  or  three  miles  from  Apia  with  a  native 
wife.  I  had  been  playing  tennis  with  him  and  when 
we  were  tired  he  suggested  a  cup  of  tea.  We  went 
into  the  house  and  in  the  untidy  living-room  found 
Ethel  chatting  with  Mrs  Caster. 

"Hulloa,  Ethel,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  know  you 
were  here." 

I  could  not  help  looking  at  her  with  curiosity. 
I  tried  to  see  what  there  was  in  her  to  have  excited 
in  Lawson  such  a  devastating  passion.  But  who 
can  explain  these  things?  It  was  true  that  she  was 
lovely;  she  reminded  one  of  the  red  hibiscus,  the 
common  flower  of  the  hedgerow  in  Samoa,  with 
its  grace  and  its  languor  and  its  passion;  but  what 
surprised  me  most,  taking  into  consideration  the 
story  I  knew  even  then  a  good  deal  of,  was  her 
freshness  and  simplicity.  She  was  quiet  and  a  little 
shy.  There  was  nothing  coarse  or  loud  about  her; 
she  had  not  the  exuberance  common  to  the  half- 


194  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

caste;  and  it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe  that 
she  could  be  the  virago  that  the  horrible  scenes  be- 
tween husband  and  wife,  which  were  now  common 
knowledge,  indicated.  In  her  pretty  pink  frock  and 
high-heeled  shoes  she  looked  quite  European.  You 
could  hardly  have  guessed  at  that  dark  background 
of  native  life  in  which  she  felt  herself  so  much  more 
at  home.  I  did  not  imagine  that  she  was  at  all  in- 
telligent, and  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  if  a 
man,  after  living  with  her  for  some  time,  had  found 
the  passion  which  had  drawn  him  to  her  sink  into 
boredom.  It  suggested  itself  to  me  that  in  her 
elusiveness,  like  a  thought  that  presents  itself  to 
consciousness  and  vanishes  before  it  can  be  captured 
by  words,  lay  her  peculiar  charm;  but  perhaps  tha* 
was  merely  fancy,  and  if  I  had  known  nothing  about 
her  I  should  have  seen  in  her  only  a  pretty  little 
half-caste  like  another. 

She  talked  to  me  of  the  various  things  which  they 
talk  of  to  the  stranger  in  Samoa,  of  the  journey,  and 
whether  I  had  slid  down  the  water  rock  at  Papaseea, 
and  if  I  meant  to  stay  in  a  native  village.  She  talked 
to  me  of  Scotland,  and  perhaps  I  noticed  in  her  a 
tendency  to  enlarge  on  the  sumptuousness  of  her 
establishment  there.  She  asked  me  naively  if  I  knew 
Mrs  This  and  Mrs  That,  with  whom  she  had  been 
acquainted  when  she  lived  in  the  north. 

Then  Miller,  the  fat  German-American,  came  in. 
He  shook  hands  all  round  very  cordially  and  sat 
down,  asking  in  his  loud,  cheerful  voice  for  a  whisky 
and  soda.  He  was  very  fat  and  he  sweated  pro- 
fusely. He  took  off  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and 


THE  POOL  195 

wiped  them ;  you  saw  then  that  his  little  eyes,  benev- 
olent behind  the  large  round  glasses,  were  shrewd 
and  cunning;  the  party  had  been  somewhat  dull  till 
he  came,  but  he  was  a  good  story-teller  and  a  jovial 
fellow.  Soon  he  had  the  two  women,  Ethel  and 
my  friend's  wife,  laughing  delightedly  at  his  sallies. 
He  had  a  reputation  on  the  island  of  a  lady's  man, 
and  you  could  see  how  this  fat,  gross  fellow,  old 
and  ugly,  had  yet  the  possibility  of  fascination.  His 
humour  was  on  a  level  with  the  understanding  of 
his  company,  an  affair  of  vitality  and  assurance, 
and  his  Western  accent  gave  a  peculiar  point  to 
what  he  said.  At  last  he  turned  to  me : 

"Well,  if  we  want  to  get  back  for  dinner  we'd 
better  be  getting.  I'll  take  you  along  in  my  machine 
if  you  like." 

I  thanked  him  and  got  up.  He  shook  hands  with 
the  others,  went  out  of  the  room,  massive  and  strong 
in  his  walk,  and  climbed  into  his  car. 

"Pretty  little  thing,  Lawson's  wife,"  I  said,  as 
we  drove  along. 

"Too  bad  the  way  he  treats  her.  Knocks  her 
about.  Gets  my  dander  up  when  I  hear  of  a  man 
hitting  a  woman." 

We  went  on  a  little.    Then  he  said : 

"He  was  a  darned  fool  to  marry  her.  I  said  so 
at  the  time.  If  he  hadn't,  he'd  have  had  the  whip 
hand  over  her.  He's  yaller,  that's  what  he  is, 
yaller." 

The  year  was  drawing  to  its  end  and  the  time  ap- 
proached when  I  was  to  leave  Samoa.  My  boat  was 
scheduled  to  sail  for  Sydney  on  the  fourth  of  Janu- 


196  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

ary.  Christmas  Day  had  been  celebrated  at  the 
hotel  with  suitable  ceremonies,  but  it  was  looked 
upon  as  no  more  than  a  rehearsal  for  New  Year, 
and  the  men  who  were  accustomed  to  foregather  in 
the  lounge  determined  on  New  Year's  Eve  to  make 
a  night  of  it.  There  was  an  uproarious  dinner,  after 
which  the  party  sauntered  down  to  the  English  Club, 
a  simple  little  frame  house,  to  play  pool.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  talking,  laughing,  and  betting, 
but  some  very  poor  play,  except  on  the  part  of 
Miller,  who  had  drunk  as  much  as  any  of  them,  all 
far  younger  than  he,  but  had  kept  unimpaired  the 
keenness  of  his  eye  and  the  sureness  of  his  hand.  He 
pocketed  the  young  men's  money  with  humour  and 
urbanity.  After  an  hour  of  this  I  grew  tired  and 
went  out.  I  crossed  the  road  and  came  on  to  the 
beach.  Three  coconut  trees  grew  there,  like  three 
moon  maidens  waiting  for  their  lovers  to  ride  out 
of  the  sea,  and  I  sat  at  the  foot  of  one  of  them, 
watching  the  lagoon  and  the  nightly  assemblage  of 
the  stars. 

I  do  not  know  where  Lawson  had  been  during  the 
evening,  but  between  ten  and  eleven  he  came  along 
to  the  club..  He  shambled  down  the  dusty,  empty 
road,  feeling  dull  and  bored,  and  when  he  reached 
the  club,  before  going  into  the  billiard-room,  went 
into  the  bar  to  have  a  drink  by  himself.  He  had  a 
shyness  now  about  joining  the  company  of  white 
men  when  there  were  a  lot  of  them  together  and 
needed  a  stiff  dose  of  whisky  to  give  him  confidence. 
He  was  standing  with  the  glass  in  his  hand  when 
Miller  came  in  to  him.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves 


THE  POOL  197 

and  still  held  his  cue.  He  gave  the  bar-tender  a 
glance. 

"Get  out,  Jack,"  he  said. 

The  bar-tender,  a  native  in  a  white  jacket  and  a 
red  lava-lava,  without  a  word  slid  out  of  the  small 
room. 

"Look  here,  I've  been  wanting  to  have  a  few 
words  with  you,  Lawson,"  said  the  big  American. 

"Well,  that's  one  of  the  few  things  you  can  have 
free,  gratis,  and  for  nothing  on  this  damned  island." 

Miller  fixed  his  gold  spectacles  more  firmly  on  his 
nose  and  held  Lawson  with  his  cold  determined 
eyes. 

"See  here,  young  fellow,  I  understand  you've  been 
knocking  Mrs  Lawson  about  again.  I'm  not  going 
to  stand  for  that.  If  you  don't  stop  it  right  now  I'll 
break  every  bone  of  your  dirty  little  body." 

Then  Lawson  knew  what  he  had  been  trying  to 
find  out  so  long.  It  was  Miller.  The  appearance  of 
the  man,  fat,  bald-headed,  with  his  round  bare  face 
and  double  chin  and  the  gold  spectacles,  his  age,  his 
benign,  shrewd  look,  like  that  of  a  renegade  priest, 
and  the  thought  of  Ethel,  so  slim  and  virginal,  filled 
him  with  a  sudden  horror.  Whatever  his  faults 
Lawson  was  no  coward,  and  without  a  word  he  hit 
out  violently  at  Miller.  Miller  quickly  warded  the 
blow  with  the  hand  that  held  the  cue,  and  then  with 
a  great  swing  of  his  right  arm  brought  his  fist  down 
on  Lawson's  ear.  Lawson  was  four  inches  shorter 
than  the  American  and  he  was  slightly  built,  frail 
and  weakened  not  only  by  illness  and  the  enervating 
tropics,  but  by  drink.  He  fell  like  a  log  and  lay 


198  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

half  dazed  at  the  foot  of  the  bar.  Miller  took  off 
his  spectacles  and  wiped  them  with  his  handker- 
chief. 

"I  guess  you  know  what  to  expect  now.  You've 
had  your  warning  and  you'd  better  take  it." 

He  took  up  his  cue  and  went  back  into  the  billiard- 
room.  There  was  so  much  noise  there  that  no  one 
knew  what  had  happened.  Lawson  picked  himself 
up.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  ear,  which  was  singing 
still.  Then  he  slunk  out  of  the  club. 

I  saw  a  man  cross  the  road,  a  patch  of  white 
against  the  darkness  of  the  night,  but  did  not  know 
who  it  was.  He  came  down  to  the  beach,  passed 
me  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and  looked  down. 
I  saw  then  that  it  was  Lawson,  but  since  he  was 
doubtless  drunk,  did  not  speak.  He  went  on,  walked 
irresolutely  two  or  three  steps,  and  turned  back- 
He  came  up  to  me  and  bending  down  stared  in  my 
face. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  and  took  out  his  pipe. 

"It  was  hot  and  noisy  in  the  club,"  I  volunteered. 

"Why  are  you  sitting  here?" 

"I  was  waiting  about  for  the  midnight  mass  at 
the  Cathedral." 

"If  you  like  I'll  come  with  you." 

Lawson  was  quite  sober.  We  sat  for  a  while 
smoking  in  silence.  Now  and  then  in  the  lagoon 
was  the  splash  of  some  big  fish,  and  a  little  way  out 
towards  the  opening  in  the  reef  was  the  light  of  a 
schooner. 

"You're  sailing  next  week,  aren't  you?"  he  said. 


THE  POOL  199 

"Yes." 

"It  would  be  jolly  to  go  home  once  more.  But  I 
could  never  stand  it  now.  The  cold,  you  know." 

"It's  odd  to  think  that  in  England  now  they're 
shivering  round  the  fire,"  I  said. 

There  was  not  even  a  breath  of  wind.  The  balmi- 
ness  of  the  night  was  like  a  spell.  I  wore  nothing 
but  a  thin  shirt  and  a  suit  of  ducks.  I  enjoyed  the 
exquisite  languor  of  the  night,  and  stretched  my 
limbs  voluptuously. 

"This  isn't  the  sort  of  New  Year's  Eve  that 
persuades  one  to  make  good  resolutions  for  the  fu- 
ture," I  smiled. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  I  do  not  know  what  train 
of  thought  my  casual  remark  had  suggested  in  him, 
for  presently  he  began  to  speak.  He  spoke  in  a 
low  voice,  without  any  expression,  but  his  accents 
were  educated,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  hear  him  after 
the  twang  and  the  vulgar  intonations  which  for  some 
time  had  wounded  my  ears. 

"I've  made  an  awful  hash  of  things.  That's 
obvious,  isn't  it?  I'm  right  down  at  the  bottom  of 
the  pit  and  there's  no  getting  out  for  me.  'Black 
as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole/  "  I  felt  him  smile  as 
he  made  the  quotation.  "And  the  strange  thing  is 
that  I  don't  see  how  I  went  wrong." 

I  held  my  breath,  for  to  me  there  is  nothing  more 
awe-inspiring  than  when  a  man  discovers  to  you 
the  nakedness  of  his  soul.  Then  you  see  that  no 
one  is  so  trivial  or  debased  but  that  in  him  is  a  spark 
of  something  to  excite  compassion. 

"It  wouldn't  be  so  rotten  if  I  could  see  that  it  was 


200  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

all  my  own  fault.  It's  true  I  drink,  but  I  shouldn't 
have  taken  to  that  if  things  had  gone  differently. 
I  wasn't  really  fond  of  liquor.  I  suppose  I  ought 
not  to  have  married  Ethel.  If  I'd  kept  her  it  would 
be  all  right.  But  I  did  love  her  so." 

His  voice  faltered. 

"She's  not  a  bad  lot,  you  know,  not  really.  It's 
just  rotten  luck.  We  might  have  been  as  happy  as 
lords.  When  she  bolted  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
let  her  go,  but  I  couldn't  do  that — I  was  dead  stuck 
on  her  then;  and  there  was  the  kid." 

"Are  you  fond  of  the  kid?"  I  asked. 

"I  was.  There  are  two,  you  know.  But  they 
don't  mean  so  much  to  me  now.  You'd  take  them 
for  natives  anywhere.  I  have  to  talk  to  them  in 
Samoan." 

"Is  it  too  late  for  you  to  start  fresh?  Couldn't 
you  make  a  dash  for  it  and  leave  the  place?" 

"I  haven't  the  strength.     I'm  done  for." 

"Are  you  still  in  love  with  your  wife?" 

"Not  now.  Not  now."  He  repeated  the  two 
words  with  a  kind  of  horror  in  his  voice.  "I  haven't 
even  got  that  now.  I'm  down  and  out." 

The  bells  of  the  Cathedral  were  ringing. 

"If  you  really  want  to  come  to  the  midnight  mass 
we'd  better  go  along,"  I  said. 

"Come  on." 

We  got  up  and  walked  along  the  road.  The 
Cathedral,  all  white,  stood  facing  the  sea  not  with- 
out impressiveness,  and  beside  it  the  Protestant 
chapels  had  the  look  of  meeting-houses.  In  the  road 
were  two  or  three  cars,  and  a  great  number  of  traps, 


THE  POOL  201 

and  traps  were  put  up  against  the  walls  at  the  side. 
People  had  come  from  all  parts  of  the  island  for 
the  service,  and  through  the  great  open  doors  we 
saw  that  the  place  was  crowded.  The  high  altar 
was  all  ablaze  with  light.  There  were  a  few  whites 
and  a  good  many  half-castes,  but  the  great  majority 
were  natives.  All  the  men  wore  trousers,  for  the 
Church  has  decided  that  the  lava-lava  is  indecent. 
We  found  chairs  at  the  back,  near  the  open  door, 
and  sat  down.  Presently,  following  Lawson's  eyes, 
I  saw  Ethel  come  in  with  a  party  of  half-castes. 
They  were  all  very  much  dressed  up,  the  men  in 
high,  stiff  collars  and  shiny  boots,  the  women  in 
largej  gay  hats.  Ethel  nodded  and  smiled  to  her 
friends  as  she  passed  up  the  aisle.  The  service 
began. 

When  it  was  over  Lawson  and  I  stood  on  one 
side  for  a  while  to  watch  the  crowd  stream  out,  then 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you'll  have  a 
pleasant  journey  home." 

"Oh,  but  I  shall  see  you  before  I  go." 

He  sniggered. 

"The  question  is  if  you'll  see  me  drunk  or  sober." 

He  turned  and  left  me.  I  had  a  recollection  of 
those  very  large  black  eyes,  shining  wildly  under  the 
shaggy  brows.  I  paused  irresolutely.  I  did  not  feel 
sleepy  and  I  thought  I  would  at  all  events  go  along 
to  the  club  for  an  hour  before  turning  in.  When  I 
got  there  I  found  the  billiard-room  empty,  but  half- 
a-dozen  men  were  sitting  round  a  table  in  the  lounge, 
playing  poker.  Miller  looked  up  as  I  came  in. 


202  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Sit  down  and  take  a  hand,"  he  said. 

"All  right." 

I  bought  some  chips  and  began  to  play.  Of  course 
it  is  the  most  fascinating  game  in  the  world  and  my 
hour  lengthened  out  to  two,  and  then  to  three. 
The  native  bar-tender,  cheery  and  wide-awake 
notwithstanding  the  time,  was  at  our  elbow  to  sup- 
ply us  with  drinks  and  from  somewhere  or  other  he 
produced  a  ham  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  We  played  on. 
Most  of  the  party  had  drunk  more  than  was  good 
for  them  and  the  play  was  high  and  reckless.  I 
played  modestly,  neither  wishing  to  win  nor  anxious 
to  lose,  but  I  watched  Miller  with  a  fascinated  in- 
terest. He  drank  glass  for-glass  with  the  rest  of  the 
company,  but  remained  cool  and  level-headed.  His 
pile  of  chips  increased  in  size  and  he  had  a  neat  little 
paper  in  front  of  him  on  which  he  had  marked 
various  sums  lent  to  players  in  distress.  He  beamed 
amiably  at  the  young  men  whose  money  he  was 
taking.  He  kept  up  interminably  his  stream  of  jest 
and  anecdote,  but  he  never  missed  a  draw,  he  never 
let  an  expression  of  the  face  pass  him.  At  last  the 
dawn  crept  into  the  windows,  gently,  with  a  sort  of 
deprecating  shyness,  as  though  it  had  no  business 
there,  and  then  it  was  day. 

"Well,"  said  Miller,  "I  reckon  we've  seen  the 
old  year  out  in  style.  Now  let's  have  a  round  of 
jackpots  and  me  for  my  mosquito  net.  I'm  fifty, 
remember,  I  can't  keep  these  late  hours." 

The  morning  was  beautiful  and  fresh  when  we 
stood  on  the  verandah,  and  the  lagoon  was  like  a 
sheet  of  multicoloured  glass.  Someone  suggested  a 


THE  POOL  203 

dip  before  going  to  bed,  but  none  cared  to  bathe 
in  the  lagoon,  sticky  and  treacherous  to  the  feet. 
Miller  had  his  car  at  the  door  and  he  offered  to  take 
us  down  to  the  pool.  We  jumped  in  and  drove  along 
the  deserted  road.  When  we  reached  the  pool  it 
seemed  as  though  the  day  had  hardly  risen  there 
yet.  Under  the  trees  the  water  was  all  in  shadow 
and  the  night  had  the  effect  of  lurking  still.  We 
were  in  great  spirits.  We  had  no  towels  or  any 
costume  and  in  my  prudence  I  wondered  how  we 
were  going  to  dry  ourselves.  .None  of  us  had 
much  on  and  it  did  not  take  us  long  to  snatch  of! 
our  clothes.  Nelson,  the  little  supercargo,  was 
stripped  first. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  bottom,'*  he  said. 

He  dived  and  in  a  moment  another  man  dived  too, 
but  shallow,  and  was  out  of  the  water  before  him. 
Then  Nelson  came  up  and  scrambled  to  the  side. 

"I  say,  get  me  out,"  he  said. 

"What's  up?" 

Something  was  evidently  the  matter.  His  face 
was  terrified.  Two  fellows  gave  him  their  hands 
and  he  slithered  up. 

"I  say,  there's  a  man  down  there." 

"Don't  be  a  fool.     You're  drunk." 

"Well,  if  there  isn't  I'm  in  for  D.  T's.  But  I  tell 
you  there's  a  man  down  there.  It  just  scared  me 
out  of  my  wits." 

Miller  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  The  little 
man  was  all  white.  He  was  actually  trembling. 

"Come  on,  Caster,"  said  Miller  to  the  big  Aus- 
tralian, "we'd  better  go  down  and  see." 


204  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"He  was  standing  up,"  said  Nelson,  "all  dressed. 
I  saw  him.  He  tried  to  catch  hold  of  me." 

"Hold  your  row,"  said  Miller.  "Are  you 
ready?" 

They  dived  in.  We  waited  on  the  bank,  silent. 
It  really  seemed  as  though  they  were  under  water 
longer  than  any  men  could  breathe.  Then  Caster 
came  up,  and  immediately  after  him,  red  in  the  face 
as  though  he  were  going  to  have  a  fit,  Miller.  They 
were  pulling  something  behind  them.  Another  man 
jumped  in  to  help  them,  and  the  three  together 
dragged  their  burden  to  the  side.  They  shoved  it  up. 
Then  we  saw  that  it  was  Lawson,  with  a  great  stone 
tied  up  in  his  coat  and  bound  to  his  feet. 

"He  was  set  on  making  a  good  job  of  it,"  said 
Miller,  as  he  wiped  the  water  from  his  short- 
sighted eyes. 


VI 

'Honolulu 

THE  wise  traveller  travels  only  in  imagination. 
An  old  Frenchman  (he  was  really  a  Savo- 
yard) once  wrote  a  book  called  Voyage  autour  de 
ma  Chambre.  I  have  not  read  it  and  do  not  even 
know  what  it  is  about,  but  the  title  stimulates  my 
fancy.  In  such  a  journey  I  could  circumnavigate 
the  globe.  An  eikon  by  the  chimneypiece  can  take 
me  to  Russia  with  its  great  forests  of  birch  and  its 
white,  domed  churches.  The  Volga  is  wide,  and  a<~ 
the  end  of  a  straggling  village,  in  the  wine-shop, 
bearded  men  in  rough  sheepskin  coats  sit  drinking. 
1  stand  on  the  little  hill  from  which  Napoleon  first 
saw  Moscow  and  I  look  upon  the  vastness  of  the 
city.  I  will  go  down  and  see  the  people  whom  I 
know  more  intimately  than  so  many  of  my  friends, 
Alyosha,  and  Vronsky,  and  a  dozen  more.  But  my 
eyes  fall  on  a  piece  of  porcelain  and  I  smell  the  acrid 
odours  of  China.  I  am  borne  in  a  chair  along  a 
narrow  causeway  between  the  padi  fields,  or  else  I 
skirt  a  tree-clad  mountain.  My  bearers  chat  gaily 
as  they  trudge  along  in  the  bright  morning  and 
every  now  and  then,  distant  and  mysterious,  I  hear 
the  deep  sound  of  a  monastery  bell.  In  the  streets 
of  Peking  there  is  a  motley  crowd  and  it  scatters  to 

205 


206  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

allow  passage  to  a  string  of  camels,  stepping  deli- 
cately, that  bring  skins  and  strange  drugs  from  the 
stony  deserts  of  Mongolia.  In  England,  in  Lon- 
don, there  are  certain  afternoons  in  winter  when 
the  clouds  hang  heavy  and  low  and  the  light  is  so 
bleak  that  your  heart  sinks,  but  then  you  can  look 
out  of  your  window,  and  you  see  the  coconut  trees 
crowded  upon  the  beach  of  a  coral  island.  The  sand 
is  silvery  and  when  you  walk  along  in  the  sunshine 
it  is  so  dazzling  that  you  can  hardly  bear  to  look 
at  it.  Overhead  the  mynah  birds  are  making  a  great 
to-do,  and  the  surf  beats  ceaselessly  against  the  reef. 
Those  are  the  best  journeys,  the  journeys  that  you 
take  at  your  own  fireside,  for  then  you  lose  none  of 
your  illusions. 

But  there  are  people  who  take  salt  in  their  coffee. 
They  say  it  gives  it  a  tang,  a  savour,  which  is  peculiar 
and  fascinating.  In  the  same  way  there  are  certain 
places,  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  romance,  to  which 
the  inevitable  disillusionment  which  you  must  ex- 
perience on  seeing  them  gives  a  singular  spice.  You 
had  expected  something  wholly  beautiful  and  you 
get  an  impression  which  is  infinitely  more  compli- 
cated than  any  that  beauty  can  give  you.  It  is  like 
the  weakness  in  the  character  of  a  great  man  which 
may  make  him  less  admirable  but  certainly  makes 
him  more  interesting. 

Nothing  had  prepared  me  for  Honolulu.  It  is  so 
far  away  from  Europe,  it  is  reached  after  so  long  a 
journey  from  San  Francisco,  so  strange  and  so 
charming  associations  are  attached  to  the  name,  that 
at  first  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  I  do  not  know 


HONOLULU  207 

that  I  had  formed  in  my  mind  any  very  exact  picture 
of  what  I  expected,  but  what  I  found  caused  me  a 
great  surprise.  It  is  a  typical  western  city.  Shacks 
are  cheek  by  jowl  with  stone  mansions;  dilapidated 
frame  houses  stand  next  door  to  smart  stores  with 
plate  glass  windows;  electric  cars  rumble  noisily 
along  the  streets;  and  motors,  Fords,  Buicks,  Pack- 
ards,  line  the  pavement.  The  shops  are  filled  with 
all  the  necessities  of  American  civilisation.  Every 
third  house  is  a  bank  and  every  fifth  the  agency  of 
a  steamship  company. 

Along  the  streets  crowd  an  unimaginable  assort- 
ment of  people.  The  Americans,  ignoring  the  cli- 
mate, wear  black  coats  and  high,  starched  collars, 
straw  hats,  soft  hats,  and  bowlers.  The  Kanakas, 
pale  brown,  with  crisp  hair,  have  nothing  on  but  a 
shirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers;  but  the  half-breeds 
are  very  smart  with  flaring  ties  and  patent-leather 
boots.  The  Japanese,  with  their  obsequious  smile, 
are  neat  and  trim  in  white  duck,  while  their  women 
walk  a  step  or  two  behind  them,  in  native  dress,  with 
a  baby  on  their  backs.  The  Japanese  children,  in 
bright  coloured  frocks,  their  little  heads  shaven,  look 
like  quaint  dolls.  Then  there  are  the  Chinese.  The 
men,  fat  and  prosperous,  wear  their  American 
clothes  oddly,  but  the  women  are  enchanting  with 
their  tightly-dressed  black  hair,  so  neat  that  you  feel 
it  can  never  be  disarranged,  and  they  are  very  clean 
in  their  tunics  and  trousers,  white,  or  powder  blue, 
or  black.  Lastly  there  are  the  Filipinos,  the  men  in 
huge  straw  hats,  the  women  in  bright  yellow  muslin 
with  great  puffed  sleeves. 


208  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

It  is  the  meeting-place  of  East  and  West.  The 
very  new  rubs  shoulders  with  the  immeasurably  old. 
And  if  you  have  not  found  the  romance  you  expected 
you  have  come  upon  something  singularly  intriguing. 
All  these  strange  people  live  close  to  each  other, 
with  different  languages  and  different  thoughts;  they 
believe  in  different  gods  and  they  have  different 
values;  two  passions  alone  they  share,  love  and 
hunger.  And  somehow  as  you  watch  them  you  have 
an  impression  of  extraordinary  vitality.  Though  the 
air  is  so  soft  and  the  sky  so  blue,  you  have,  I  know 
not  why,  a  feeling  of  something  hotly  passionate 
that  beats  like  a  throbbing  pulse  through  the  crowd. 
Though  the  native  policeman  at  the  corner,  stand- 
ing on  a  platform,  with  a  white  club  to  direct  the 
traffic,  gives  the  scene  an  air  of  respectability,  you 
cannot  but  feel  that  it  is  a  respectability  only  of  the 
surface;  a  little  below  there  is  darkness  and  mystery. 
It  gives  you  just  that  thrill,  with  a  little  catch  at  the 
heart,  that  you  have  when  at  night  in  the  forest  the 
silence  trembles  on  a  sudden  with  the  low,  insistent 
beating  of  a  drum.  You  are  all  expectant  of  I 
know  not  what. 

If  I  have  dwelt  on  the  incongruity  of  Honolulu,  it 
is  because  just  this,  to  my  mind,  gives  its  point  to 
the  story  I  want  to  tell.  It  is  a  story  of  primitive 
superstition,  and  it  startles  me  that  anything  of  the 
sort  should  survive  in  a  civilisation  which,  if  not 
very  distinguished,  is  certainly  very  elaborate.  I 
cannot  get  over  the  fact  that  such  incredible  things 
should  happen,  or  at  least  be  thought  to  happen, 
right  in  the  middle,  so  to  speak,  of  telephones,  tram- 


HONOLULU 

cars,  and  daily  papers.  And  the  friend  who  showed 
me  Honolulu  had  the  same  incongruity  which  I  felt 
from  the  beginning  was  its  most  striking  character- 
istic. 

He  was  an  American  named  Winter  and  I  had 
brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  him  from  an  ac- 
quaintance in  New  York.  He  was  a  man  between 
forty  and  fifty,  with  scanty  black  hair,  grey  at  the 
temples,  and  a  sharp-featured,  thin  face.  His  eyes 
had  a  twinkle  in  them  and  his  large  horn  spectacles 
gave  him  a  demureness  which  was  not  a  little  divert- 
ing. He  was  tall  rather  than  otherwise  and  very 
spare.  He  was  born  in  Honolulu  and  his  father 
had  a  large  store  which  sold  hosiery  and  all  such 
goods,  from  tennis  racquets  to  tarpaulins,  as  a  man 
of  fashion  could  require.  It  was  a  prosperous  busi- 
ness and  I  could  well  understand  the  indignation  of 
Winter  pere  when  his  son,  refusing  to  go  into  it, 
had  announced  his  determination  to  be  an  actor- 
My  friend  spent  twenty  years  on  the  stage,  some- 
times in  New  York,  but  more  often  on  the  road,  for 
his  gifts  were  small;  but  at  last,  being  no  fool,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  better  to  sell  sock- 
suspenders  in  Honolulu  than  to  play  small  parts  in 
Cleveland,  Ohio.  He  left  the  stage  and  went  into 
the  business.  I  think  after  the  hazardous  existence 
he  had  lived  so  long,  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
luxury  of  driving  a  large  car  and  living  in  a  beauti- 
ful house  near  the  golf-course,  and  I  am  quite  sure, 
since  he  was  a  man  of  parts,  he  managed  the  busi- 
ness competently.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself 
entirely  to  break  his  connection  with  the  arts  and 


210  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

since  he  might  no  longer  act  he  began  to  paint.  He 
took  me  to  his  studio  and  showed  me  his  work.  It 
was  not  at  all  bad,  but  not  what  I  should  have  ex- 
pected from  him.  He  painted  nothing  but  still  life, 
very  small  pictures,  perhaps  eight  by  ten;  and  he 
painted  very  delicately,  with  the  utmost  finish.  He 
had  evidently  a  passion  for  detail.  His  fruit  pieces 
reminded  you  of  the  fruit  in  a  picture  by  Ghirlan- 
dajo.  While  you  marvelled  a  little  at  his  patience, 
you  could  not  help  being  impressed  by  his  dexterity. 
I  imagine  that  he  failed  as  an  actor  because  his  ef- 
fects, carefully  studied,  were  neither  bold  nor  broad 
•enough  to  get  across  the  footlights. 

I  was  entertained  by  the  proprietary,  yet  ironical 
air  with  which  he  showed  me  the  city.  He  thought 
in  his  heart  that  there  was  none  in  the  United  States 
to  equal  it,  but  he  saw  quite  clearly  that  his  attitude 
was  comic.  He  drove  me  round  to  the  various 
buildings  and  swelled  with  satisfaction  when  I  ex- 
pressed a  proper  admiration  for  their  architecture. 
He  showed  me  the  houses  of  rich  men. 

"That's  the  Stubbs'  house,"  he  said.  "It  cost  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  to  build.  The  Stubbs  are 
one  of  our  best  families.  Old  man  Stubbs  came  here 
as  a  missionary  more  than  seventy  years  ago." 

He  hesitated  a  little  and  looked  at  me  with  twin- 
kling eyes  through  his  big  round  spectacles. 

"All  our  best  families  are  missionary  families," 
he  said.  "You're  not  very  much  in  Honolulu  unless 
your  father  or  your  grandfather  converted  the 
heathen." 

"Is  that  so?" 


HONOLULU  211 

"Do  you  know  your  Bible?" 

"Fairly,"  I  answered. 

"There  is  a  text  which  says:  The  fathers  have 
eaten  sour  grapes  and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on 
edge.  I  guess  it  runs  differently  in  Honolulu.  The 
fathers  brought  Christianity  to  the  Kanaka  and  the 
children  jumped  his  land." 

"Heaven  helps  those  who  help  themselves,"  I 
murmured. 

"It  surely  does.  By  the  time  the  natives  of  this 
island  had  embraced  Christianity  they  had  nothing 
else  they  could  afford  to  embrace.  The  kings  gave 
the  missionaries  land  as  a  mark  of  esteem,  and  the 
missionaries  bought  land  by  way  of  laying  up  treas- 
ure in  heaven.  It  surely  was  a  good  investment. 
One  missionary  left  the  business — I  think  one  may 
call  it  a  business  without  offence — and  became  a  land 
agent,  but  that  is  an  exception.  Mostly  it  was  their 
sons  who  looked  after  the  commercial  side  of  the 
concern.  Oh,  it's  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  father  who 
came  here  fifty  years  ago  to  spread  the  faith." 

But  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Gee,  it's  stopped.  That  means  it's  time  to  have 
a  cocktail." 

We  sped  along  an  excellent  road,  bordered  with 
red  hibiscus,  and  came  back  into  the  town. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  Union  Saloon?" 

"Not  yet." 

"We'll  go  there." 

I  knew  it  was  the  most  famous  spot  in  Honolulu 
and  I  entered  it  with  a  lively  curiosity.  You  get 
to  it  by  a  narrow  passage  from  King  Street,  and  in 


21£  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

the  passage  are  offices,  so  that  thirsty  souls  may 
be  supposed  bound  for  one  of  these  just  as  well  as 
for  the  saloon.  It  is  a  large  square  room,  with  three 
entrances,  and  opposite  the  bar,  which  runs  the 
length  of  it,  two  corners  have  been  partitioned  off 
into  little  cubicles.  Legend  states  that  they  were 
built  so  that  King  Kalakaua  might  drink  there  with- 
out being  seen  by  his  subjects,  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
think  that  in  one  or  other  of  these  he  may  have  sat 
over  his  bottle,  a  coal-black  potentate,  with  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  There  is  a  portrait  of  him,  in 
oils,  in  a  rich  gold  frame;  but  there  are  also  two 
prints  of  Queen  Victoria.  On  the  walls,  besides, 
are  old  line  engravings  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
one  of  which,  and  heaven  knows  how  it  got  there, 
is  after  a  theatrical  picture  by  De  Wilde;  and  there 
are  oleographs  from  the  Christmas  supplements  of 
the  Graphic  and  the  Illustrated  London  News  of 
twenty  years  ago.  Then  there  are  advertisements  of 
whisky,  gin,  champagne,  and  beer ;  and  photographs 
of  baseball  teams  and  of  native  orchestras. 

The  place  seemed  to  belong  not  to  the  modern, 
hustling  world  that  I  had  left  in  the  bright  street 
outside,  but  to  one  that  was  dying.  It  had  the 
savour  of  the  day  before  yesterday.  Dingy  and 
dimly  lit,  it  had  a  vaguely  mysterious  air  and  you 
could  imagine  that  it  would  be  a  fit  scene  for  shady 
transactions.  It  suggested  a  more  lurid  time,  when 
ruthless  men  carried  their  lives  in  their  hands,  and 
violent  deeds  diapered  the  monotony  of  life. 

When  I  went  in  the  saloon  was  fairly  full.  A 
group  of  business  men  stood  together  at  the  bar, 


HONOLULU  213 

discussing  affairs,  and  in  a  corner  two  Kanakas  were 
drinking.  Two  or  three  men  who  might  have  been 
store-keepers  were  shaking  dice.  The  rest  of  the 
company  plainly  followed  the  sea;  they  were  cap- 
tains of  tramps,  first  mates,  and  engineers.  Behind 
the  bar,  busily  making  the  Honolulu  cocktail  for 
which  the  place  was  famous,  served  two  large  half- 
castes,  in  white,  fat,  clean-shaven  and  dark  skinned, 
with  thick,  curly  hair  and  large  bright  eyes. 

Winter  seemed  to  know  more  than  half  the  com- 
pany, and  when  we  made  our  way  to  the  bar  a  little 
fat  man  in  spectacles,  who  was  standing  by  hwnself, 
offered  him  a  drink. 

"No,  you  have  one  with  me,  Captain,"  said 
Winter. 

He  turned  to  me. 

"I  want  you  to  know  Captain  Butler." 

The  little  man  shook  hands  with  me.  We  began 
to  talk,  but,  my  attention  distracted  by  my  surround- 
ings, I  took  small  notice  of  him,  and  after  we  had 
each  ordered  a  cocktail  we  separated.  When  we  had 
got  into  the  motor  again  and  were  driving  away, 
Winter  said  to  me: 

"I'm  glad  we  ran  up  against  Butler.  I  wanted 
you  to  meet  him.  What  did  you  think  of  him?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  thought  very  much  of  him 
at  all,"  I  answered. 

"Do  you  believe  in  the  supernatural?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know  that  I  do,"  I  smiled. 

"A  very  queer  thing  happened  to  him  a  year  or 
two  ago.  You  ought  to  have  him  tell  you  about  it." 

"What  sort  of  thing?" 


214  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

Winter  did  not  answer  my  question. 

"I  have  no  explanation  of  it  myself,"  he  said. 
"But  there's  no  doubt  about  the  facts.  Are  you 
interested  in  things  like  that?" 

"Things  like  what?" 

"Spells  and  magic  and  all  that." 

"I've  never  met  anyone  who  wasn't." 

Winter  paused  for  a  moment. 

"I  guess  I  wo,n't  tell  you  myself.  You  ought  to 
hear  it  from  his  own  lips  so  that  you  can  judge. 
How  are  you  fixed  up  for  to-night?" 

"I've  got  nothing  on  at  all." 

"Well,  I'll  get  hold  of  him  between  now  and 
then  and  see  if  we  can't  go  down  to  his  ship." 

Winter  told  me  something  about  him.  Captain 
Butler  had  spent  all  his  life  on  the  Pacific.  He  had 
been  in  much  better  circumstances  than  he  was  now, 
for  he  had  been  first  officer  and  then  captain  of  * 
passenger-boat  plying  along  the  coast  of  California, 
but  he  had  lost  his  ship  and  a  number  of  passengers 
had  been  drowned. 

"Drink,  I  guess,"  said  Winter. 

Of  course  there  had  been  an  enquiry,  which  had 
cost  him  his  certificate,  and  then  he  drifted  further 
afield.  For  some  years  he  had  knocked  about  the 
South  Seas,  but  he  was  now  in  command  of  a  small 
schooner  which  sailed  between  Honolulu  and  the 
various  islands  of  the  group.  It  belonged  to  a 
Chinese  to  whom  the  fact  that  his  skipper  had  no 
certificate  meant  only  that  he  could  be  had  for 
lower  wages,  and  to  have  a  white  man  in  charge 
was  always  an  advantage. 


HONOLULU  215 

And  now  that  I  had  heard  this  about  him  I  took 
the  trouble  to  remember  more  exactly  what  he  was 
like.  I  recalled  his  round  spectacles  and  the  round 
blue  eyes  behind  them,  and  so  gradually  recon- 
structed him  before  my  mind.  He  was  a  little  man, 
without  angles,  plump,  with  a  round  face  like  the 
full  moon  and  a  little  fat  round  nose.  He  had  fair 
short  hair,  and  he  was  red-faced  and  clean  shaven. 
He  had  plump  hands,  dimpled  on  the  knuckles,  and 
short  fat  legs.  He  was  a  jolly  soul,  and  the  tragic 
experience  he  had  gone  through  seemed  to  have  left 
him  unscarred.  Though  he  must  have  been  thirty- 
four  or  thirty-five  he  looked  much  younger.  But 
after  all  I  had  given  him  but  a  superficial  attention, 
and  now  that  I  knew  of  this  catastrophe,  which  had 
obviously  ruined  his  life,  I  promised  myself  that 
when  I  saw  him  again  I  would  take  more  careful 
note  of  him.  It  is  very  curious  to  observe  the  differ- 
ences of  emotional  response  that  you  find  in  different 
people.  Some  can  go  through  terrific  battles,  the 
fear  of  imminent  death  and  unimaginable  horrors, 
and  preserve  their  soul  unscathed,  while  with  others 
the  trembling  of  the  moon  on  a  solitary  sea  or  the 
song  of  a  bird  in  a  thicket  will  cause  a  convulsion 
great  enough  to  transform  their  entire  being.  Is 
it  due  to  strength  or  weakness,  want  of  imagination 
or  instability  of  character?  I  do  not  know.  When 
I  called  up  in  my  fancy  that  scene  of  shipwreck, 
with  the  shrieks  of  the  drowning  and  the  terror, 
and  then  later,  the  ordeal  of  the  enquiry,  the  bitter 
grief  of  those  who  sorrowed  for  the  lost,  and  the 
harsh  things  he  must  have  read  of  himself  in  the 


216  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

papers,  the  shame  and  the  disgrace,  it  came  to  me 
with  a  shock  to  remember  that  Captain  Butler  had 
talked  -with  the  frank  obscenity  of  a  schoolboy  of 
the  Hawaiian  girls  and  of  Ewelei,  the  Red  Light 
district,  and  of  his  successful  adventures.  He 
laughed  readily,  and  one  would  have  thought  he 
could  never  laugh  again.  I  remembered  his  shining, 
white  teeth ;  they  were  his  best  -feature.  He  began 
to  interest  me,  and  thinking  of  him  and  of  his  gay 
insouciance  I  forgot  the  particular  story7,  to  hear 
which  I  was  to  see  him  again.  I  wanted  to  see  him 
rather  to  find  out  if  I  could  a  little  more  what  sort 
of  man  he  was. 

Winter  made  the  necessary  arrangements  and 
after  dinner  we  went  down  to  the  water  front.  The 
ship's  boat  was  waiting  for  us  and  we  rowed  out. 
The  schooner  was  anchored  some  way  across  the 
harbour,  not  far  from  the  breakwater.  We  came 
alongside,  and  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  ukalele.  We 
clambered  up  the  ladder. 

"I  guess  he's  in  the  cabin,"  said  Winter,  leading 
the  way. 

It  was  a  small  cabin,  bedraggled  and  dirty,  with 
a  table  against  one  side  and  a  broad  bench  all  round 
upon  which  slept,  I  supposed,  such  passengers  as 
were  ill-advised  enough  to  travel  in  such  a  ship. 
A  petroleum  lamp  gave  a  dim  light.  The  ukalele 
was  being  played  by  a  native  girl  and  Butler  was 
lolling  on  the  seat,  half  lying,  with  his  head  on  her 
shoulder  and  an  arm  round  her  waist. 

"Don't  let  us  disturb  you,  Captain,"  said  Winter, 
facetiously. 


HONOLULU  217 

"Come  right  in,"  said  Butler,  getting  up  and 
shaking  hands  with  us.  "What'll  you  have?" 

It  was  a  warm  night,  and  through  the  open  door 
you  saw  countless  stars  in  a  heaven  that  was  still 
almost  blue.  Captain  Butler  wore  a  sleeveless  under- 
shirt, showing  his  fat  white  arms,  and  a  pair  of  in- 
credibly dirty  trousers.  His  feet  were  bare,  but  on 
his  curly  head  he  wore  a  very  old,  a  very  shapeless 
felt  hat. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  girl.  Ain't  she  a 
peach?" 

We  shook  hands  with  a  very  pretty  person.  She 
was  a  good  deal  taller  than  the  captain,  and  even 
the  Mother  Hubbard,  which  the  missionaries  of  a 
past  generation  had,  in  the  interests  of  decency, 
forced  on  the  unwilling  natives,  could  not  conceal 
the  beauty  of  her  form.  One  could  not  but  suspect 
that  age  would  burden  her  with  a  certain  corpulence, 
but  now  she  was  graceful  and  alert.  Her  brown 
skin  had  an  exquisite  translucency  and  her  eyes  were 
magnificent.  Her  black  hair,  very  thick  and  rich, 
was  coiled  round  her  head  in  a  massive  plait.  When 
she  smiled  in  a  greeting  that  was  charmingly  natural, 
she  showed  teeth  that  were  small,  even,  and  white. 
She  was  certainly  a  most  attractive  creature.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  captain  was  madly  in  love 
with  her.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her;  he 
wanted  to  touch  her  all  the  time.  That  was  very 
easy  to  understand;  but  what  seemed  to  me  stranger 
was  that  the  girl  was  apparently  in  love  with  him. 
There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  was  unmistakable, 
and  her  lips  were  slightly  parted  as  though  in  a  sigh 


218  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

of  desire.  It  was  thrilling.  It  was  even  a  little 
moving,  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  somewhat  in 
the  way.  What  had  a  stranger  to  do  with  this  love- 
sick pair?  I  wished  that  Winter  had  not  brought 
me.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  dingy  cabin  was 
transfigured  and  now  it  seemed  a  fit  and  proper 
scene  for  such  an  extremity  of  passion.  I  thought  I 
should  never  forget  that  schooner  in  the  harbour  of 
Honolulu,  crowded  with  shipping,  and  yet,  under 
the  immensity  of  the  starry  sky,  remote  from  all  the 
world.  I  liked  to  think  of  those  lovers  sailing  off 
together  in  the  night  over  the  empty  spaces  of  the 
Pacific  from  one  green,  hilly  island  to  another.  A 
faint  breeze  of  romance  softly  fanned  my  cheek. 

And  yet  Butler  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 
with  whom  you  would  have  associated  romance,  and 
it  was  hard  to  see  what  there  was  in  him  to  arouse 
love.  In  the  clothes  he  wore  now  he  looked  podgier 
than  ever,  and  his  round  spectacles  gave  his  round 
face  the  look  of  a  prim  cherub.  He  suggested  rather 
a  curate  who  had  gone  to  the  dogs.  His  conversa- 
tion was  peppered  with  the  quaintest  Americanisms, 
and  it  is  because  I  despair  of  reproducing  these  that, 
at  whatever  loss  of  vividness,  I  mean  to  narrate  the 
story  he  told  me  a  little  later  in  my  own  words. 
Moreover  he  was  unable  to  frame  a  sentence  with- 
out an  oath,  though  a  good-natured  one,  and  his 
speech,  albeit  offensive  only  to  prudish  ears,  in  print 
would  seem  coarse.  He  was  a  mirth-loving  man, 
and  perhaps  that  accounted  not  a  little  for  his  suc- 
cessful amours;  since  women,  for  the  most  part 
frivolous  creatures,  are  excessively  bored  by  the 


HONOLULU  219 

seriousness  with  which  men  treat  them,  and  they 
can  seldom  resist  the  buffoon  who  makes  them  laugh. 
Their  sense  of  humour  is  crude.  Diana  of  Ephesus 
is  always  prepared  to  fling  prudence  to  the  winds 
for  the  red-nosed  comedian  who  sits  on  his  haL  I 
realised  that  Captain  Butler  had  charm.  If  I  had 
not  known  the  tragic  story  of  the  shipwreck  I  should 
have  thought  he  had  never  had  a  care  in  his  life. 

Our  host  had  rung  the  bell  on  our  entrance  and 
now  a  Chinese  cook  came  in  with  more  glasses  and 
several  bottles  of  soda.  The  whisky  and  the  cap- 
tain's empty  glass  stood  already  on  the  table.  But 
when  I  saw  the  Chinese  I  positively  started,  for  he 
was  certainly  the  ugliest  man  I  had  ever  seen.  He 
was  very  short,  but  thick-set,  and  he  had  a  bad 
limp.  He  wore  a  singlet  and  a  pair  of  trous- 
ers that  had  been  white,  but  were  now  filthy,  and, 
perched  on  a  shock  of  bristly,  grey  hair,  an  old  tweed 
deer-stalker.  It  would  have  been  grotesque  on  any 
Chinese,  but  an  him  it  was  outrageous.  His  broad, 
square  face  was  very  flat  as  though  it  had  been 
bashed  in  by  a  mighty  fist,  and  it  was  deeply  pitted 
with  smallpox;  but  the  most  revolting  thing  in 
him  was  a  very  pronounced  harelip  which  had  never 
been  operated  on,  so  that  his  upper  lip,  cleft,  went 
up  in  an  angle  to  his  nose,  and  in  the  opening  was 
a  huge  yellow  fang.  It  was  horrible.  He  came  in 
with  the  end  of  a  cigarette  at  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  and  this,  I  do  not  know  why,  gave  him  a 
devilish  expression. 

He  poured  out  the  whisky  and  opened  a  bottle  of 
soda. 


220  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Don't  drown   it,   John,"   said  the   captain. 

He  said  nothing,  but  handed  a  glass  to  each  of 
us.  Then  he  went  out. 

"I  saw  you  lookin'  at  my  Chink,"  said  Butler, 
with  a  grin  on  his  fat,  shining  face. 

"I  should  hate  to  meet  him  on  a  dark  night,"  I 
said. 

"He  sure  is  homely,"  said  the  captain,  and  for 
some  reason  he  seemed  to  say  it  with  a  peculiar 
satisfaction.  "But  he's  fine  for  one  thing,  I'll  tell 
the  world ;  you  just  have  to  have  a  drink  every  time 
you  look  at  him." 

But  my  eyes  fell  on  a  calabash  that  hung  against 
the  wall  over  the  table,  and  I  got  up  to  look  at  it. 
I  had  been  hunting  for  an  old  one  and  this  was  bet- 
ter than  any  I  had  seen  outside  the  museum. 

"It  was  given  me  by  a  chief  over  on  one  of  the 
islands,"  said  the  captain,  watching  me.  "I  done 
him  a  good  turn  and  he  wanted  to  give  me  something 
good," 

"He  certainly  did,"  I  answered. 

I  was  wondering  whether  I  could  discreetly  make 
Captain  Butler  an  offer  for  it,  I  could  not  imagine 
that  he  set  any  store  on  such  an  article,  when,  as 
though  he  read  my  thoughts,  he  said : 

"I  wouldn't  sell  that  for  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Winter.  "It  would  be  a  crime 
to  sell  it." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"That  comes  into  the  story,"  returned  Winter. 
"Doesn't  it,  Captain?" 

"It  surely  does." 


HONOLULU  221 

"Let's  hear  it  then." 

"The  night's  young  yet,"  he  answered. 

The  night  distinctly  lost  its  youth  before  he 
satisfied  my  curiosity,  and  meanwhile  we  drank  a 
great  deal  too  much  whisky  while  Captain  Butler 
narrated  his  experiences  of  San  Francisco  in  the  old 
days  and  of  the  South  Seas.  At  last  the  girl  fell 
asleep.  She  lay  curled  up  on  the  seat,  with  her  face 
on  her  brown  arm,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
gently  with  her  breathing.  In  sleep  she  looked  sul- 
len, but  darkly  beautiful. 

He  had  found  her  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the 
group  among  which,  whenever  there  was  cargo  to 
be  got,  he  wandered  with  his  crazy  old  schooner. 
The  Kanakas  have  little  love  for  work,  and  the 
laborious  Chinese,  the  cunning  Japs,  have  taken  the 
trade  out  of  their  hands.  Her  father  had  a  strip  of 
land  on  which  he  grew  taro  and  bananas  and  he  had 
a  boat  in  which  he  went  fishing.  He  was  vaguely 
related  to  the  mate  of  the  schooner,  and  it  was  he 
who  took  Captain  Butler  up  to  the  shabby  little 
frame  house  to  spend  an  idle  evening.  They  took 
a  bottle  of  whisky  with  them  and  the  ukalele.  The 
captain  was  not  a  shy  man  and  when  he  saw  a 
pretty  girl  he  made  love  to  her.  He  could  speak  the 
native  language  fluently  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  had  overcome  the  girl's  timidity.  They  spent  the 
evening  singing  and  dancing,  and  by  the  end  of  it 
she  was  sitting  by  his  side  and  he  had  his  arm  round 
her  waist.  It  happened  that  they  were  delayed  on 
the  island  for  several  days  and  the  captain,  at  no 
time  a  man  to  hurry,  made  no  effort  to  shorten  his 


222  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

stay.  He  was  very  comfortable  in  the  snug  little 
harbour  and  life  was  long.  He  had  a  swim  round 
his  ship  in  the  morning  and  another  in  the  evening. 
There  was  a  chandler's  shop  on  the  water  front 
where  sailormen  could  get  a  drink  of  whisky,  and 
he  spent  the  best  part  of  the  day  there,  playing 
cribbage  with  the  half-caste  who  owned  it.  At  night 
the  mate  and  he  went  up  to  the  house  where  the 
pretty  girl  lived  and  they  sang  a  song  or  two  and 
told  stories.  It  was  the  girl's  father  who  suggested 
that  he  should  take  her  away  with  him.  They  dis- 
cussed the  matter  in  a  friendly  fashion,  while  the 
girl,  nestling  against  the  captain,  urged  him  by  the 
pressure  of  her  hands  and  her  soft,  smiling  glances. 
He  had  taken  a  fancy  to  her  and  he  was  a  domestic 
man.  He  was  a  little  dull  sometimes  at  sea  and  it 
would  be  very  pleasant  to  have  a  pretty  little  creature 
like  that  about  the  old  ship.  He  was  of  a  practical 
turn  too,  and  he  recognised  that  it  would  be  useful 
to  have  someone  around  to  darn  his  socks  and  look 
after  his  linen.  He  was  tired  of  having  his  things 
washed  by  a  Chink  who  tore  everything  to  pieces; 
the  natives  washed  much  better,  and  now  and  then 
when  the  captain  went  ashore  at  Honolulu  he  liked 
to  cut  a  dash  in  a  smart  duck  suit.  It  was  only  a 
matter  of  arranging  a  price.  The  father  wanted  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  the  captain,  never  a 
thrifty  man,  could  not  put  his  hand  on  such  a  sum. 
But  he  was  a  generous  one,  and  with  the  girl's  soft 
face  against  his,  he  was  not  inclined  to  haggle.  He 
offered  to  give  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  there  and 
then  and  another  hundred  in  three  months.  There 


HONOLULU  223 

was  a  good  deal  of  argument  and  the  parties  could 
tlot  come  to  any  agreement  that  night,  but  the  idea 
had  fired  the  captain,  and  he  could  not  sleep  as  well 
as  usual.  He  kept  dreaming  of  the  lovely  girl  and 
each  time  he  awoke  it  was  with  the  pressure  of  her 
soft,  sensual  lips  on  his.  He  cursed  himself  in  the 
morning  because  a  bad  night  at  poker  the  last  time 
he  was  at  Honolulu  had  left  him  so  short  of  ready 
money.  And  if  the  night  before  he  had  been  in  love 
with  the  girl,  this  morning  he  was  crazy  about  her. 

"See  here,  Bananas,"  he  said  to  the  mate,  "Fve 
got  to  have  that  girl.  You  go  and  tell  the  old  man 
I'll  bring  the  dough  up  to-night  and  she  can  get  fixed 
up.  I  figure  we'll  be  ready  to  sail  at  dawn." 

I  have  no  idea  why  the  mate  was  known  by  that 
eccentric  name.  He  was  called  Wheeler,  but  though 
he  had  that  English  surname  there  was  not  a  drop 
of  white  blood  in  him.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and 
well-made  though  inclined  to  stoutness,  but  much 
darker  than  is  usual  in  Hawaii.  He  was  no  longer 
young,  and  his  crisply  curling,  thick  hair  was'  grey. 
His  upper  front  teeth  were  cased  in  gold.  He  was 
very  proud  of  them.  He  had  a  marked  squint  and 
this  gave  him  a  saturnine  expression.  The  cap- 
tain, who  was  fond  of  a  joke,  found  in  it  a  constant 
source  of  humour  and  hesitated  the  less  to  rally  him 
on  the  defect  because  he  realised  that  the  mate  was 
sensitive  about  it.  Bananas,  unlike  most  of  the 
natives,  was  a  taciturn  fellow  and  Captain  Butler 
would  have  disliked  him  if  it  had  been  possible  for 
a  man  of  his  good  nature  to  dislike  anyone.  He 
liked  to  be  at  sea  with  someone  he  could  talk  to,  he 


224  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

was  a  chatty,  sociable  creature,  and  it  was  enough 
to  drive  a  missionary  to  drink  to  live  there  day  after 
day  with  a  chap  who  never  opened  his  mouth.  He 
did  his  best  to  wake  the  mate  up,  that  is  to  say,  he 
chaffed  him  without  mercy,  but  it  was  poor  fun  to 
laugh  by  oneself,  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that, 
drunk  or  sober,  Bananas  was  no  fit  companion  for  a 
white  man.  But  he  was  a  good  seaman  and  the  cap- 
tain was  shrewd  enough  to  know  the  value  of  a  mate 
he  could  trust.  It  was  not  rare  for  him  to  come 
aboard,  when  they  were  sailing,  fit  for  nothing  but  to 
fall  into  his  bunk,  and  it  was  worth  something  to 
know  that  he  could  stay  there  till  he  had  slept  his 
liquor  off,  since  Bananas  could  be  relied  on.  But 
he  was  an  unsociable  devil,  and  it  would  be  a  treat 
to  have  someone  he  could  talk  to.  That  girl  would 
be  fine.  Besides,  he  wouldn't  be  so  likely  to  get 
drunk  when 'he  went  ashore  if  he  knew  there  was  a 
little  girl  waiting  for  him  when  he  came  on  board 
again. 

He  went  to  his  friend  the  chandler  and  over  a 
peg  of  gin  asked  him  for  a  loan.  There  were  one 
or  two  useful  things  a  ship's  captain  could  do  for 
a  ship's  chandler,  and  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
conversation  in  low  tones  (there  is  no  object  in 
letting  all  and  sundry  know  your  business),  the  cap- 
tain cfammed  a  wad  of  notes  in  his  hip-pocket,  and 
that  night,  when  he  went  back  to  his  ship,  the  girl 
went  with  him. 

What  Captain  Butler,  seeking  for  reasons  to  do 
what  he  had  already  made  up  his  mind  to,  had  anti- 
cipated, actually  came  to  pass.  He  did  not  give  up 


HONOLULU  225 

drinking,  but  he  ceased  to  drink  to  excess.  An 
evening  with  the  boys,  when  he  had  been  away 
from  town  two  or  three  weeks,  was  pleasant  enough, 
but  it  was  pleasant  too  to  get  back  to  his  little  girl; 
he  thought  of  her,  sleeping  so  softly,  and  how,  when 
he  got  into  his  cabin  and  leaned  over  her,  she  would 
open  her  eyes  lazily  and  stretch  out  her  arms  for 
him:  it  was  as  good  as  a  full  hand.  He  found  he 
was  saving  money,  and  since  he  was  a  generous  man 
he  did  the  right  thing  by  the  little  girl:  he  gave  her 
some  silver-backed  brushes  for  her  long  hair,  and  a 
gold  chain,  and  a  reconstructed  ruby  for  her  finger. 
Gee,  but  it  was  good  to  be  alive. 

A  year  went  by,  a  whole  year,  and  he  was  not 
tired  of  her  yet.  He  was  not  a  man  who  analysed 
his  feelings,  but  this  was  so  surprising  that  it  forced 
itself  upon  his  attention.  There  must  be  something 
very  wonderful  about  that  girl.  He  couldn't  help 
seeing  that  he  was  more  wrapped  up  in  her  than  ever, 
and  sometimes  the  thought  entered  his  mind  that  it 
might  not  be  a  bad  thing  if  he  married  her. 

Then,  one  day  the  mate  did  not  come  in  to  din- 
ner or  to  tea.  Butler  did  not  bother  himself  about 
his  absence  at  the  first  meal,  but  at  the  second  he 
asked  the  Chinese  cook: 

"Where's  the  mate?    He  no  come  tea?" 

"No  wantchee,"  said  the  Chink. 

"He  ain't  sick?" 

"No  savvy." 

Next  day  Bananas  turned  up  again,  but  he  was 
more  sullen  than  ever,  and  after  dinner  the  captain 
asked  the  girl  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  She 


2£6  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

smiled  and  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders.  She  told 
the  captain  that  Bananas  had  taken  a  fancy  to  her 
and  he  was  sore  because  she  had  told  him  off.  The 
captain  was  a  good-humoured  man  and  he  was  not 
of  a  jealous  nature;  it  struck  him  as  exceeding  funny 
that  Bananas  should  be  in  love.  A  man  who  had  a 
squint  like  that  had  a  precious  poor  chance.  When 
tea  came  round  he  chaffed  him  gaily.  He  pretended 
to  speak  in  the  air,  so  that  the  mate  should  not  be 
certain  that  he  knew  anything,  but  he  dealt  him  some 
pretty  shrewd  blows.  The  girl  did  not  think  him 
as  funny  as  he  thought  himself,  and  afterwards  she 
begged  him  to  say  nothing  more.  He  was  surprised 
at  her  seriousness.  She  told  him  he  did  not  know 
her  people.  When  their  passion  was  aroused  they 
were  capable  of  anything.  She  was  a  little  fright- 
ened. This  was  so  absurd  to  him  that  he  laughed 
heartily. 

"If  he  comes  bothering  round  you,  you  just 
threaten  to  tell  me.  That'll  fix  him." 

"Better  fire  him,  I  think." 

"Not  on  your  sweet  life.  I  know  a  good  sailor 
when  I  see  one.  But  if  he  don't  leave  you  alone  I'll 
give  him  the  worst  licking  he's  ever  had." 

Perhaps  the  girl  had  a  wisdom  unusual  in  her 
sex..  She  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  a 
man  when  his  mind  was  made  up,  for  it  only  in- 
creased his  stubbornness,  and  she  held  her  peace. 
And  now  on  the  shabby  schooner,  threading  her  way 
across  the  silent  sea,  among  those  lovely  islands,  was 
enacted  a  dark,  tense  drama  of  which  the  fat  little 
captain  remained  entirely  ignorant.  The  girl's  re- 


HONOLULU  227 

sistance  fired  Bananas  so  that  he  ceased  to  be  a  man, 
but  was  simply  blind  desire.  He  did  not  make  love 
to  her  gently  or  gaily,  but  with  a  black  and  savage 
ferocity.  Her  contempt  now  was  changed  to  hatred 
and  when  he  besought  her  she  answered  him  with 
bitter,  angry  taunts.  But  the  struggle  went  on  si- 
lently, and  when  the  captain  asked  her  after  a  little 
while  whether  Bananas  was  bothering  her,  she  lied. 

But  one  night,  when  they  were  in  Honolulu,  he 
came  on  board  only  just  in  time.  They  were  sailing 
at  dawn.  Bananas  had  been  ashore,  drinking  some 
native  spirit,  and  he  was  drunk.  The  captain,  row- 
ing up,  heard  sounds  that  surprised  him.  He 
scrambled  up  the  ladder.  He  saw  Bananas,  beside 
himself,  trying  to  wrench  open  the  cabin  door.  He 
was  shouting  at  the  girl.  He  swore  he  would  kill 
her  if  she  did  not  let  him  in. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  up  to?"  cried  Butler. 

The  mate  let  go  the  handle,  gave  the  captain  a 
look  of  savage  hate,  and  without  a  word  turned 
away. 

"Stop  here.  What  are  you  doing  with  that 
door?" 

The  mate  still  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  him 
with  sullen,  bootless  rage. 

"I'll  teach  you  not  to  pull  any  of  your  queer  stuff 
with  me,  you  dirty,  cross-eyed  nigger,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. 

He  was  a  good  foot  shorter  than  the  mate  and  no 
match  for  him,  but  he  was  used  to  dealing  with  na- 
tive crews,  and  he  had  his  knuckle-duster  handy. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  an  instrument  that  a  gentleman 


228  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

would  use,  but  then  Captain  Butler  was  not  a  gentle- 
man. Nor  was  he  in  the  habit  of  dealing  with 
gentlemen.  Before  Bananas  knew  what  the  captain 
was  at,  his  right  arm  had  shot  out  ^nd  his  fist,  with 
its  ring  of  steel,  caught  him  fair  and  square  on  the 
jaw.  He  fell  like  a  bull  under  the  pole-axe. 

"That'll  learn  him,"  said  the  captain. 

Bananas  did  not  stir.  The  girl  unlocked  the  cabin 
dt>or  and  came  out. 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"He  ain't." 

He  called  a  couple  of  men  and  told  them  to  carry 
the  mate  to  his  bunk.  He  rubbed  his  hands  with 
satisfaction  and  his  round  blue  eyes  gleamed  behind 
his  spectacles.  But  the  girl  was  strangely  silent.  She 
put  her  arms  round  him  as  though  to  protect  him 
from  invisible  harm. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  before  Bananas  was  on 
his  feet  again,  and  when  he  came  out  of  his  cabin 
his  face  was  torn  and  swollen.  Through  the  dark- 
ness of  his  skin  you  »aw  the  livid  bruise.  Butler 
saw  him  slinking  along  the  deck  and  called  him.  The 
mate  went  to  him  without  a  word. 

"See  here,  Bananas,"  he  said  to  him,  fixing  his 
spectacles  on  his  slippery  nose,  for  it  was  very  hot. 
"I  ain't  going  to  fire  you  for  this,  but  you  know 
now  that  when  I  hit,  I  hit  hard.  Don't  forget  it  and 
don't  let  me  have  any  more  funny  business." 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand  and  gave  the  mate 
that  good-humoured,  flashing  smile  of  his  which 
was  his  greatest  charm.  The  mate  took  the  out- 
stretched hand  and  twitched  his  swollen  lips  into  a 


HONOLULU  229 

devilish  grin.  The  incident  in  the  captain's  mind 
was  so  completely  finished  that  when  the  three  of 
them  sat  at  dinner  he  chaffed  Bananas  on  his  appear- 
ance. He  was  eating  with  difficulty  and,  his  swollen 
face  still  more  distorted  by  pain,  he  looked  truly  a 
repulsive  object. 

That  evening,  when  he  was  sitting  on  the  upper 
deck,  smoking  his  pipe,  a  shiver  passed  through  the 
captain.  < 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  be  shiverin'  for  on 
a  night  like  this,"  he  grumbled.  "Maybe  I've  gotten 
a  dose  of  fever.  I've  been  feelin'  a  bit  queer  all 
day." 

When  he  went  to  bed  he  took  some  quinine,  and 
next  morning  he  felt  better,  but  a  little  washed  out, 
as  though  he  were  recovering  from  a  debauch. 

"I  guess  my  liver's  out  of  order,"  he  said,  and  he 
took  a  pill. 

He  had  not  much  appetite  that  day  and  towards 
evening  he  began  to  feel  very  unwell.  He  tried  the 
next  remedy  he  knew,  which  was  to  drink  two  or 
three  hot  whiskies,  but  that  did  not  seem  to  help  him 
much,  and  when  in  the  morning  he  surveyed  himself 
in  the  glass  he  'thought  he  was  not  looking  quite  the 
thing. 

"If  I  ain't  right  by  the  time  we  get  back  to  Hono- 
lulu I'll  just  give  Dr  Denby  a  call.  He'll  sure  fix 
me  up." 

He  could  not  eat.  He  felt  a  great  lassitude  in 
all  his  limbs.  He  slept  soundly  enough,  but  he 
awoke  with  no  sense  of  refreshment;  on  the  con- 
trary he  felt  a  peculiar  exhaustion.  And  the  ener- 


230  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

getic  little  man,  who  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
lying  in  bed,  had  to  make  an  effort  to  force  himself 
out  of  his  bunk.  After  a  few  days  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  resist  the  languor  that  oppressed  him, 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  get  up. 

"Bananas  can  look  after  the  ship,"  he  said.  "He 
has  before  now." 

He  laughed  a  little  to  himself  as  he  thought  how 
often  he  had  lain  speechless  in  his  bunk  after  a  night 
with  the  boys.  That  was  before  he  had  his  girl. 
He  smiled  at  her  and  pressed  her  hand.  She  was 
puzzled  and  anxious.  He  saw  that  she  was  con- 
cerned about  him  and  tried  to  reassure  her.  He  had 
never  had  a  day's  illness  in  his  life  and  in  a  week 
at  the  outside  he  would  be  as  right  as  rain. 
;  "I  wish  you'd  fired  Bananas,"  she  said.  "I've 
got  a  feeling  that  he's  at  the  bottom  of  this." 

"Damned  good  thing  I  didn't,  or  there'd  be  no 
one  to  sail  the  ship.  I  know  a  good  sailor  when  I 
see  one."  His  blue  eyes,  rather  pale  now,  with  the 
whites  all  yellow,  twinkled.  "You  don't  think  he's 
trying  to  poison  me,  little  girl?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she"  had  one  or  two  talks 
with  the  Chinese  cook,  and  she  took  great  care  with 
the  captain's  food.  But  he  ate  little  enough  now, 
and  it  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  she 
persuaded  him  to  drink  a  cup  of  soup  two  or  three 
times  a  day.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  very  ill,  he 
was  losing  weight  quickly,*  and  his  chubby  face  was 
pale  and  drawn,  tie  suffered  no  pain,  but  merely 
grew  every  day  weaker"  and  more  languid.  He  was 
wasting  away.  The  round  trip  on  this  occasion 


HONOLULU  231 

lasted  about  four  weeks  and  by  the  time  they  came 
to  Honolulu  the  captain  was  a  little  anxious  about 
himself.  He  had  not  been  out  of  his  bed  for  more 
than  a  fortnight  and  really  he  felt  too  weak  to  get 
up  and  go  to  the  doctor.  He  sent  a  message  asking 
him  to  come  on  board.  The  doctor  examined  him, 
but  could  find  nothing  to  account  for  his  condition. 
His  temperature  was  normal. 

"See  here,  Captain,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  perfectly 
frank  with  you.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter 
with  you,  and  just  seeing  you  like  this  don't  give 
me  a  chance.  You  come  into  the  hospital  so  that 
we  can  keep  you  under  observation.  There's  nothing 
organically  wrong  with  you,  I  know  that,  and  my 
impression  is  that  a  few  weeks  in  hospital  ought  to 
put  you  to  rights." 

"I  ain't  going  to  leave  my  ship." 

Chinese  owners  were  queer  customers,  he  said; 
if  he  left  his  ship  because  he  was  sick,  his  owner 
might  fire  him,  and  he  couldn't  afford  to  lose  his  job. 
So  long  as  he  stayed  where  he  was  his  contract  safe- 
guarded him,  and  he  had  a  first-rate  mate.  Besides, 
he  couldn't  leave  his  girl.  No  man  could  want  a 
better  nurse;  if  anyone  could  pull  him  through  she 
would.  Every  man  had  to  die  once  and  he  only 
wis'hed  to  be  left  in  peace.  He  would  not  listen  to 
the  doctor's  expostulations,  and  finally  the  doctor 
gave  in. 

"I'll  write  you  a  prescription,"  he  said  doubtfully, 
"and  see  if  it  does  you  any  good.  You'd  better  stay 
in  bed  for  a  while." 

"There  ain't  much  fear  of  my  getting  up,  doc," 


232  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

answered  the  captain.  "I  feel  as  weak  as  a  cat." 
But  he  believed  in  the  doctor's  prescription  as 
little  as  did  the  doctor  himself,  and  when  he  was 
alone  amused  himself  by  lighting  his  cigar  with  it. 
He  had  to  get  amusement  out  of  something,  for  his 
cigar  tasted  like  nothing  on  earth,  and  he  smoked 
only  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  not  too  ill  to. 
That  evening  a  couple  of  friends  of  his,  masters  of 
tramp  steamers,  hearing  he  was  sick  came  to  see  him. 
They  discussed  his  case  over  a  bottle  of  whisky  and 
a  box  of  Philippine  cigars.  One  of  them  remem- 
bered how  a  mate  of  his  had  been  taken  queer  just 
like  that  and  not  a  doctor  in  the  United  States  had 
been  able  to  cure  him.  He  had  seen  in  the  paper 
an  advertisement  of  a  patent  medicine,  and  thought 
there'd  be  no  harm  in  trying  it.  That  man  was  as 
strong  as  ever  he'd  been  in  his  life  after  two  bottles. 
But  his  illness  had  given  Captain  Butler  a  lucidity 
which  was  new  and  strange,  and  while  they  talked 
he  seemed  to  read  their  minds.  They  thought  he 
was  dying.  And  when  they  left  him  he  was  afraid. 
The  girl  saw  his  weakness.  This  was  her  oppor- 
tunity. She  had  been  urging  him  to  let  a  native  doc- 
tor see  him,  and  he  had  stoutly  refused;  but  now  she 
entreated  him.  He  listened  with  harassed  eyes. 
He  wavered.  It  was  very  funny  that  the  American 
doctor  could  not  tell  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 
But  he  did  not  want 'her  to  think  that  he  was  scared. 
If  he  let  a  damned  nigger  come  along  and  look  at 
him,  it  was  to  comfort  her.  He  told  her  to  do  what 
she  liked. 

The  native  doctor  came  the  next  night.     The 


HONOLULU  233 

captain  was  lying  alone,  half  awake,  and  the  cabin 
was  dimly  lit  by  an  oil  lamp.  The  door  was 
softly  opened  and  the  girl  came  in  on  tip-toe. 
She  held  the  door  open  and  some  one  slipped 
in  silently  behind  her.  The  captain  smiled  at 
this  mystery,  but  he  was  so  weak  now,  the  smile 
was  no  more  than  a  glimmer  in  his  eyes.  The  doctor 
was  a  little,  old  man,  very  thin  and  very  wrinkled, 
with  a  completely  bald  head,  and  the  face  of  a 
monkey.  He  was  bowed  and  gnarled  like  an  old 
tree.  He  looked  hardly  human,  but  his  eyes  were 
very  bright,  and  in  the  half  darkness,  they  seemed 
to  glow  with  a  reddish  light.  He  was  dressed 
filthily  in  a  pair  of  ragged  dungarees,  and  the  upper 
part  of  his  body  was  naked.  He  sat  down  on  his 
haunches  and  for  ten  minutes  looked  at  the 
captain.  Then  he  felt  the  palms  of  his  hands  and 
the  soles  of  his  feet.  The  girl  watched  him  with 
frightened  eyes.  No  word  was  spoken.  Then  he 
asked  for  something  that  the  captain  had  worn.  The 
girl  gave  him  the  old  felt  hat  which  the  captain  used 
constantly  and  taking  it  he  sat  down  again  on  the 
floor,  clasping  it  firmly  with  both  hands;  and  rock- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  slowly  he  muttered 
some  gibberish  in  a  very  low  tone. 

At  last  he  gave  a  little  sigh  and  dropped  the  hat. 
He  took  an  old  pipe  out  of  his  trouser  pocket  and 
lit  it.  The  girl  went  over  to  him  and  sat  by  his  side. 
He  whispered  something  to  her,  and  she  started 
violently.  For  a  few  minutes  they  talked  in  hurried 
undertones,  and  then  they  stood  up.  She  gave  him 
money  and  opened  the  door  for  him.  He  slid  out 


234  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

as  silently  as  he  had  come  in.  Then  she  went  over 
to  the  captain  and  leaned  over  him  so  that  she  could 
speak  into  his  ear. 

"It's  an  enemy  praying  you  to  death." 

"Don't  talk  fool  stuff,  girlie,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"It's  truth.  It's  God's  truth.  That's  why  the 
American  doctor  couldn't  do  anything.  Our  people 
can  do  that.  I've  seen  it  done.  I  thought  you  were 
safe  because  you  were  a  white  man." 

"I  haven't  an  enemy." 

"Bananas." 

"What's  he  want  to  pray  me  to  death  for?" 

"You  ought  to  have  fired  him  before  he  had  a 
chance." 

"I  guess  if  I  ain't  got  nothing  more  the  matter 
with  me  than  Bananas'  hoodoo  I  shall  be  sitting  up 
and  taking  nourishment  in  a  very  few  days." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while  and  she  looked  at  him 
intently. 

"Don't  you  know  you're  dying?"  she  said  to  him 
at  last. 

That  was  what  the  two  skippers  had  thought,  but 
they  hadn't  said  it.  A  shiver  passed  across  the  cap- 
tain's wan  face. 

"The  doctor  says  there  ain't  nothing  really  the 
matter  w'^h  me.  I've  only  to  lie  quiet  for  a  bit  and 
I  shall  be  all  right." 

She  put  her  lips  to  his  ear  as  if  she  were  afraid 
that  the  air  itself  might  hear. 

"You're  dying,  dying,  dying.  You'll  pass  out  with 
the  old  moon." 

"That's  something  to  know." 


HONOLULU  235 

"You'll  pass  out  with  the  old  moon  unless  Bananas 
dies  before." 

He  was  not  a  timid  man  and  he  had  recovered 
already  from  the  shock  her  words,  and  still  more 
her  vehement,  silent  manner,  had  given  him.  Once 
more  a  smile  flickered  in  his  eyes. 

"I  guess  I'll  take  my  chance,  girlie." 

"There's  twelve  days  before  the  new  moon." 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  that  gave  him 
an  idea. 

"See  here,  my  girl,  this  is  all  bunk.  I  don't  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  try  any 
of  your  monkey  tricks  with  Bananas.  He  ain't  a 
beauty,  but  he's  a  first-rate  mate." 

He  would  have  said  a  good  deal  more,  but  he 
was  tired  out.  He  suddenly  felt  very  weak  and 
faint.  It  was  always  at  that  hour  that  he  felt  worse. 
He  closed  his  eyes.  The  girl  watched  him  for  a 
minute  and  then  slipped  out  of  the  cabin.  The  moon, 
nearly  full,  made  a  silver  pathway  over  the  dark 
sea.  It  shone  from  an  unclouded  sky.  She  looked 
at  it  with  terror,  for  she  knew  that  with  its  death 
the  man  she  loved  would  die.  His  life  was  in  her 
hands.  She  could  save  him,  she  alone  could  save 
him,  but  the  enemy  was  cunning,  and  she  must  be 
cunning  too.  She  felt  that  someone  was  looking 
at  her,  and  without  turning,  by  the  sudden  fear  that 
seized  her,  knew  that  from  the  shadow  the  burning 
eyes  of  the  mate  were  fixed  upon  her.  She  did  not 
know  what  he  could  do;  if  he  could  read  her 
thoughts  she  was  defeated  already,  and  with  a  des- 
perate effort  she  emptied  her  mind  of  all  content. 


236  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

His  death  alone  could  save  her  lover,  and  she  could 
bring  his  death  about.  She  knew  that  if  he  could 
be  brought  to  look  into  a  calabash  in  which  was 
water  so  that  a  reflection  of  him  was  made,  and  the 
reflection  were  broken  by  hurtling  the  water,  he 
would  die  as  though  he  had  been  struck  by  lightning; 
for  the  reflection  was  his  soul.  But  none  knew 
better  than  he  the  danger,  and  he  could  be  made  to 
look  only  by  a  guile  which  had  lulled  his  least  sus- 
picion. He  must  never  think  that  he  had  an  en- 
emy who  was  on  the  watch  to  cause  his  destruction. 
She  knew  what  she  had  to  do.  But  the  time  was 
short,  the  time  was  terribly  short.  Presently  she 
realised  that  the  mate  had  gone.  She  breathed 
more  freely. 

Two  days  later  they  sailed,  and  there  were  ten 
now  before  the  new  moon.  Captain  Butler  was  ter- 
rible to  see.  He  was  nothing  but  skin  and  bone, 
and  he  could  not  move  without  help.  He  could 
hardly  speak.  But  she  dared  do  nothing  yet.  She 
knew  that  she  must  be  patient.  The  mate  was  cun- 
ning, cunning.  They  went  to  one  of  the  smaller 
islands  of  the  group  and  discharged  cargo,  and  now 
there  were  only  seven  days  more.  The  moment  had 
come  to  start.  She  brought  some  things  out  of  the 
cabin  she  shared  with  the  captain  and  made  them 
into  a  bundle.  She  put  the  bundle  in  the  deck  cabin 
where  she  and  Bananas  ate  their  meals,  and  at  din- 
ner time,  when  she  went  in,  he  turned  quickly  and 
she  saw  that  he  had  been  looking  at  it.  Neither 
of  them  spoke,  but  she  knew  what  he  suspected. 
She  was  making  her  preparations  to  leave  the  ship. 


HONOLULU  237 

He  looked  at  her  mockingly.  Gradually,  as  though 
to  prevent  the  captain  from  knowing  what  she  was 
about,  she  brought  everything  she  owned  into  the 
cabin,  and  some  of  the  captain's  clothes,  and  made 
them  all  into  bundles.  At  last  Bananas  could  keep 
silence  no  longer.  He  pointed  to  a  suit  of  ducks. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that?"  he  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  going  back  to  my  island." 

He  gave  a  laugh  that  distorted  his  grim  face. 
The  captain  was  dying  and  she  meant  to  get  away 
with  all  she  could  lay  hands  on. 

"What'll  you  do  if  I  say  you  can't  take  those 
things?  They're  the  captain's." 

"They're  no  use  to  you,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  calabash  hanging  on  the  wall.  It 
was  the  very  calabash  I  had  seen  when  I  came  into 
the  cabin  and  which  we  had  talked  about.  She 
took  it  down.  It  was  all  dusty,  so  she  poured  water 
into  it  from  the  water-bottle,  and  rinsed  it  with 
her  fingers. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that?" 

"I  can  sell  it  for  fifty  dollars,"  she  said. 

"If  you  want  to  take  it  you'll  have  to  pay  me." 

"What  d'you  want?" 

"You  know  what  I  want." 

She  allowed  a  fleeting  smile  to  play  on  her  lips. 
She  flashed  a  quick  look  at  him  and  quickly  turned 
away.  He  gave  a  gasp  of  desire.  She  raised  her 
shoulders  in  a  little  shrug.  With  a  savage  bound 
he  sprang  upon  her  and  seized  her  in  his  arms.  Then 
she  laughed.  She  put  her  arms,  her  soft,  round 


238  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

arms,  about  his  neck,  and  surrendered  herself  to 
him  voluptuously. 

When  the  morning  came  she  roused  him  out  of 
a  deep  sleep.  The  early  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  into 
the  cabin.  He  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  Then  he 
told  her  that  the  captain  could  not  last  more  than 
a  day  or  two,  and  the  owner  wouldn't  so  easily  find 
another  white  man  to  command  the  ship.  If  Ba- 
nanas offered  to  take  less  money  he  would  get  the 
job  and  the  girl  could  stay  with  him.  He  looked 
at  her  with  love-sick  eyes.  She  nestled  up  against 
him.  She  kissed  his  lips,  in  the  foreign  way,  in  the 
way  the  captain  had  taught  her  to  kiss.  And  she 
promised  to  stay.  Bananas  was  drunk  with  happi- 
ness. 

It  was  now  or  never. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  table  to  arrange  her 
hair.  There  was  no  mirror  and  she  looked  into 
the  calabash,  seeking  for  her  reflection.  She  tidied 
her  beautiful  hair.  Then  she  beckoned  to  Bananas 
to  come  to  her.  She  pointed  to  the  calabash. 

"There's  something  in  the  bottom  of  it,"  she 
said. 

Instinctively,  without  suspecting  anything,  Ba- 
nanas looked  full  into  the  water.  His  face  was 
reflected  in  it.  In  a  flash  she  beat  upon  it  violently, 
with  both  her  hands,  so  that  they  pounded  on  the 
bottom  and  the  water  splashed  up.  The  reflection 
was  broken  in  pieces.  Bananas  started  back  with 
a  sudden  hoarse  cry  and  he  looked  at  the  girl.  She 
was  standing  there  with  a  look  of  triumphant  ha- 
tred on  her  face.  A  horror  came  into  his  eyes. 


HONOLULU  239 

His  heavy  features  were  twisted  in  agony,  and  with 
a  thud,  as  though  he  had  taken  a  violent  poison,  he 
crumpled  up  on  to  the  ground.  A  great  shudder 
passed  through  his  body  and'he  was  still.  She  leaned 
over  him  callously.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  heart 
and  then  she  pulled  down  his  lower  eye-lid.  He 
was  quite  dead. 

She  went  into  the  cabin  in  which  lay  Captain  But- 
ler. There  was  a  faint  colour  in  his  cheeks  and  he 
looked  at  her  in  a  startled  way. 

"What's  happened?"  he  whispered. 

They  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  for 
forty-eight  hours. 

"Nothing's  happened,"  she  said. 

"I  feel  all  funny." 

Then  his  eyes  closed  and  he  fell  asleep.  He  slept 
for  a  day  and  a  night,  and  when  he  awoke  he  asked 
for  food.  In  a  fortnight  he  was  well. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Winter  and  I  rowed 
back  to  shore  and  we  had  drunk  innumerable 
whiskies  and  sodas. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  asked  Winter. 

"What  a  question!  If  you  mean,  have  I  any  ex- 
planation to  suggest,  I  haven't." 

"The  captain  believes  every  word  of  it." 

"That's  obvious;  but  you  know  that's  not  the 
part  that  interests  me  most,  whether  it's  true  or 
not,  and  what  it  all  means;  the  part  that  interests 
me  is  that  such  things  should  happen  to  such  peo- 
ple. I  wonder  what  there  is  in  that  commonplace 
little  man  to  arouse  such  a  passion  in  that  lovely 
creature.  As  I  watched  her,  asleep  there,  while  he 


240  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

was  telling  the  story  I  had  some  fantastic  idea  about 
the  power  of  love  being  able  to  work  miracles." 

"But  that's  not  the  girl,"  said  Winter. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"Didn't  you  notice  the  cook?" 

"Of  course  I  did.     He's  the  ugliest  man  I  ever 


saw." 


"That's  why  Butler  took  him.  The  girl  ran 
away  with  the  Chinese  cook  last  year.  This  is  a 
new  one.  He's  only  had  her  there  about  two 
months." 

"Well,  I'm  hanged." 

"He  thinks  this  cook  is  safe.  But  I  wouldn't 
be  too  sure  in  his  place.  There's  something  about 
a  Chink,  when  he  lays  himself  out  to  please  a  woman 
she  can't  resist  him." 


VII 

Rain 

IT  was  nearly  bed-time  and  when  they  awoke  next 
morning  land  would  be  in  sight.  Dr  Macphail 
lit  his  pipe  and,  leaning  over  the  rail,  searched 
the  heavens  for  the  Southern  Cross.  After  two 
years  at  the  front  and  a  wound  that  had  taken 
longer  to  heal  than  it  should,  he  was  glad  to  settle 
down  quietly  at  Apia  for  twelve  months  at  least, 
and  he  felt  already  better  for  the  journey.  Since 
some  of  the  passengers  were  leaving  the  ship  next 
day  at  Pago-Pago  they  had  had  a  little  dance  that 
evening  and  in  his  ears  hammered  still  the  harsh 
notes  of  the  mechanical  piano.  But  the  deck  was 
quiet  at  last.  A  little  way  off  he  saw  his  wife  in 
a  long  chair  talking  with  the  Davidsons,  and  he 
strolled  over  to  her.  When  he  sat  down  under 
the  light  and  took  off  his  hat  you  saw  that  he  had 
very  red  hair,  with  a  bald  patch  on  the  crown,  and 
the  red,  freckled  skin  which  accompanies  red  hair; 
he  was  a  man  of  forty,  thin,  with  a  pinched  face, 
precise  and  rather  pedantic;  and  he  spoke  with  a 
Scots  accent  in  a  very  low,  quiet  voice. 

Between  the  Macphails  and  the  Davidsons,  who 
were  missionaries,  there  had  arisen  the  intimacy  of 
shipboard,  which  is  due  to  propinquity  rather  than 

Ml 


242  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

to  any  community  of  taste.  Their  chief  tie  was 
the  disapproval  they  shared  of  the  men  who  spent 
their  days  and  nights  in  the  smoking-room  playing 
poker  or  bridge  and  drinking.  Mrs  Macphail  was 
not  a  little  flattered  to  think  that  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  the  only  people  on  board  with  whom  the 
Davidsons  were  willing  to  associate,  and  even  the 
doctor,  shy  but  no  fool,  half  unconsciously  acknow- 
ledged the  compliment.  It  was  only  because  he 
was  of  an  argumentative  mind  that  in  their  cabin  at 
night  he  permitted  himself  to  carp. 

"Mrs  Davidson  was  saying  she  didn't  know  how 
they'd  have  got  through  the  journey  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  us,"  said  Mrs  Macphail,  as  she  neatly 
brushed  out  her  transformation.  "She  said  we  were 
really  the  only  people  on  the  ship  they  cared  'to 
know." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  a  missionary  was  such 
a  big  bug  that  he  could  afford  to  put  on  frills." 

"It's  not  frills.  I  quite  understand  what  she 
means.  It  wouldn't  have  been  very  nice  for  the 
Davidsons  to  have  to  mix  with  all  that  rough  lot  in 
the  smoking-room." 

"The  founder  of  their  religion  wasn't  so  exclu- 
sive," said  Dr  Macphail  with  a  chuckle. 

"I've  asked  you  over  and  over  again  not  to  joke 
about  religion,"  answered  his  wife.  "I  shouldn't 
like  to  have  a  nature  like  yours,  Alec.  You  never 
look  for  the  best  in  people." 

He  gave  her  a  sidelong  glance  with  his  pale,  blue 
eyes,  but  did  not  reply.  After  many  years  of  mar- 
ried life  he  had  learned  that  it  was  more  conducive 


RAIN  243 

to  peace  to  leave  his  wife  with  the  last  word.  He 
was  undressed  before  she  was,  and  climbing  into  the 
upper  bunk  he  settled  down  to  read  himself  to  sleep. 

When  he  came  on  deck  next  morning  they  were 
close  to  land.  He  looked  at  it  with  greedy 
eyes.  There  was  a  thin  strip  of  silver  beach  rising 
quickly  to  hills  covered  to  the  top  with  luxuriant 
vegetation.  The  coconut  trees,  thick  and  green, 
came  nearly  to  the  water's  edge,  and  among  them 
you  saw  the  grass  houses  of  the  Samoans;  and  here 
and  there,  gleaming  white,  a  little  church.  Mrs 
Davidson  came  and  stood  beside  him.  She  was 
dressed  in  black  and  wore  round  her  neck  a  gold 
chain,  from  which  dangled  a  small  cross.  She  was 
a  little  woman,  with  brown,  dull  hair  very  elabo- 
rately arranged,  and  she  had  prominent  blue  eyes 
behind  invisible  pince-nez.  Her  face  was  long, 
like  a  sheep's,  but  she  gave  no  impression  of  fool- 
ishness, rather  of  extreme  alertness;  she  had  the 
quick  movements  of  a  bird.  The  most  remarkable 
thing  about  her  was  her  voice,  high,  metallic,  and 
without  inflection;  it  fell  on  the  ear  with  a  hard 
monotony,  irritating  to  the  nerves  like  the  pitiless 
clamour  of  the  pneumatic  drill. 

"This  must  seem  like  home  to  you,"  said  Dr 
Macphail,  with  his  thin,  difficult  smile. 

"Ours  are  low  islands,  you  know,  not  like  these. 
Coral.  These  are  volcanic.  We've  got  another 
ten  days'  journey  to  reach  them." 

"In  these  parts  that's  almost  like  being  in  the 
next  street  at  home,"  said  Dr  Macphail  facetiously. 

"Well,  that's  rather  an  exaggerated  way  of  put- 


244  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

ting  it,  but  one  does  look  at  distances  differently 
in  the  South  Seas.     So  far  you're  right." 

Dr  Macphail  sighed  faintly. 

"I'm  glad  we're  not  stationed  here,"  she  went 
on.  "They  say  this  is  a  terribly  difficult  place  to 
work  in.  The  steamers'  touching  makes  the  peo- 
ple unsettled;  and  then  there's  the  naval  station; 
that's  bad  for  the  natives.  In  our  district  we 
don't  have  difficulties  like  that  to  contend  with. 
There  are  one  or  two  traders,  of  course,  but  we 
take  care  to  make  them  behave,  and  if  they  don't  we 
make  the  place  so  hot  for  them  they're  glad  to  go." 

Fixing  the  glasses  on  her  nose  she  looked  at  the 
green  island  with  a  ruthless  stare. 

"It's  almost  a  hopeless  task  for  the  missionaries 
here.  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  thankful  to  God 
that  we  are  at  least  spared  that." 

Davidson's  district  consisted  of  a  group  of  islands 
to  the  North  of  Samoa;  they  were  widely  separated 
and  he  had  frequently  to  go  long  distances  by  canoe. 
At  these  times  his  wife  remained  at  their  head- 
quarters and  managed  the  mission.  Dr.  Macphail 
felt  his  heart  sink  when  he  considered  the  efficiency 
with  which  she  certainly  managed  it.  She  spoke 
of  the  depravity  of  the  natives  in  a  voice  which 
nothing  could  hush,  but  with  a  vehemently  unctuous 
horror.  Her  sense  of  delicacy  was  singular.  Early 
in  their  acquaintance  she  had  said  to  him: 

"You  know,  their  marriage  customs  when  we 
first  settled  in  the  islands  were  so  shocking  that  I 
couldn't  possibly  describe  them  to  you.  But  I'll  tell 
Mrs  Macphail  and  she'll  tell  you." 


RAIN  245 

Then  he  had  seen  his  wife  and  Mrs  Davidson, 
their  deck-chairs  close  together,  in  earnest  conver- 
sation for  about  two  hours.  As  he  walked  past 
them  backwards  and  forwards  for  the  sake  of  exer- 
cise, he  had  heard  Mrs.  Davidson's  agitated  whis- 
per, like  the  distant  flow  of  a  mountain  torrent,  and 
he  saw  by  his  wife's  open  mouth  and  pale  face  that 
she  was  enjoying  an  alarming  experience.  At  night 
in  their  cabin  she  repeated  to  him  with  bated  breath 
all  she  had  heard. 

"Well,  what  did  I  say  to  you?"  cried  Mrs  David- 
son, exultant,  next  morning.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  more  dreadful?  You  don't  wonder  that 
I  couldn't  tell  you  myself,  do  you?  Even  though 
you  are  a  doctor." 

Mrs  Davidson  scanned  his  face.  She  had  a  dra- 
matic eagerness  to  see  that  she  had  achieved  the 
desired  effect. 

"Can  you  wonder  that  when  we  first  went  there 
our  hearts  sank?  You'll  hardly  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  it  was  impossible  to  find  a  single  good  girl 
in  any  of  the  villages." 

She  used  the  word  good  in  a  severely  technical 
manner. 

"Mr  Davidson  and  I  talked  it  over,  and  we  made 
up  our  minds  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  put  down 
the  dancing.  The  natives  were  crazy  about  danc- 
ing." 

"I  was  not  averse  to  it  myself  when  I  was  a 
young  man,"  said  Dr  Macphail. 

"I  guessed  as  much  when  I  heard  you  ask  Mrs 
Macphail  to  have  a  turn  with  you  last  night.  I 


246  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

don't  think  there's  any  real  harm  if  a  man  dances 
with  his  wife,  but  I  was  relieved  that  she  wouldn't. 
Under  the  circumstances  I  thought  it  better  that 
we  should  keep  ourselves  to  ourselves." 

"Under  what  circumstances?" 

Mrs  Davidson  gave  him  a  quick  look  through  her 
pince-nez,  but  did  not  answer  his  question. 

"But  among  white  people  it's  not  quite  the  same," 
she  went  on,  "though  I  must  say  I  agree  with  Mr 
Davidson,  who  says  he  can't  understand  how  a  hus- 
band can  stand  by  and  see  his  wife  in  another  man's 
arms,  and  as  far  as  I'm  concerned  I've  never  danced 
a  step  since  I  married.  But  the  native  dancing  is 
quite  another  matter.  It's  not  only  immoral  in 
itself,  but  it  distinctly  leads  to  immorality.  How- 
ever, I'm  thankful  to  God  that  we  stamped  it  out, 
and  I  don't  think  I'm  wrong  in  saying  that  no  one 
has  danced  in  our  district  for  eight  years." 

But  now  they  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  harbour 
and  Mrs  Macphail  joined  them.  The  ship  turned 
sharply  and  steamed  slowly  in.  It  was  a  great  land- 
locked harbour  big  enough  to  hold  a  fleet  of  battle- 
ships; and  all  around  it  rose,  high  and  steep,  the 
green  hills.  Near  the  entrance,  getting  such  breeze 
as  blew  from  the  sea,  stood  the  governor's  house 
in  a  garden.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  dangled  lan- 
guidly from  a  flagstaff.  They  passed  two  or  three 
trim  bungalows,  and  a  tennis  court,  and  then  they 
came  to  the  quay  with  its  warehouses.  Mrs  David- 
son pointed  out  the  schooner,  moored  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  from  the  side,  which  was  to  take 
them  to  Apia.  There  was  a  crowd  of  eager,  noisy, 


RAIN  247 

and  good-humoured  natives  come  from  all  parts  of 
the  island,  some  from  curiosity,  others  to  barter 
with  the  travellers  on  their  way  to  Sydney;  and 
they  brought  pineapples  and  huge  bunches  of  ba- 
nanas, tapa  cloths,  necklaces  of  shells  or  sharks' 
teeth,  kava-bowh,  and  models  of  war  canoes.  Amer- 
ican sailors,  neat  and  trim,  clean-shaven  and  frank 
of  face,  sauntered  among  them,  and  there  was  a  lit- 
tle group  of  officials.  While  their  luggage  was  being 
landed  the  Macphails  and  Mrs  Davidson  watched 
the  crowd.  Dr  Macphail  looked  at  the  yaws  from 
which  most  of  the  children  and  the  young  boys 
seemed  to  suffer,  disfiguring  sores  like  torpid  ulcers, 
and  his  professional  eyes  glistened  when  he  saw  for 
the  first  time  in  his  experience  cases  of  elephantiasis, 
men  going  about  with  a  huge,  heavy  arm  or  dragging 
along  a  grossly  disfigured  leg.  Men  and  women 
wore  the  lava-lava. 

"It's  a  very  indecent  costume,"  said  Mrs  David- 
son. "Mr  Davidson  thinks  it  should  be  prohibited 
by  law.  How  can  you  expect  people  to  be  moral 
when  they  wear  nothing  but  a  strip  of  red  cotton 
round  their  loins?" 

"It's  suitable  enough  to  the  climate,"  said  the 
doctor,  wiping  the  sweat  off  his  head. 

Now  that  they  were  on  land  the  heat,  though  it 
was  so  early  in  the  morning,  was  already  oppres- 
sive. Closed  in  by  its  hills,  not  a  breath  of  air 
came  in  to  Pago-Pago. 

"In  our  islands,"  Mrs  Davidson  went  on  in  her 
high-pitched  tones,  "we've  practically  eradicated  the 
lava-lava.  A  few  old  men  still  continue  to  wear  it, 


£48  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

but  that's  all.  The  women  have  all  taken  to  the 
Mother  Hubbard,  and  the  men  wear  trousers  and 
singlets.  At  the  very  beginning  of  our  stay  Mr 
Davidson  said  in  one  of  his  reports:  the  inhabitants 
of  these  islands  will  never  be  thoroughly  Christian- 
ised till  every  boy  of  more  than  ten  years  is  made 
to  wear  a  jpair  of  trousers." 

But  Mrs  Davidson  had  given  two  or  three  of  her 
birdlike  glances  at  heavy  grey  clouds  that  came  float- 
ing over  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  A  few  drops 
began  to  fall. 

"We'd  better  take  shelter,"  she  said. 

They  made  their  way  with  all  the  crowd  to  a 
great  shed  of  corrugated  iron,  and  the  rain  began 
to  fall  in  torrents.  They  stood  there  for  some  time 
and  then  were  joined  by  Mr  Davidson.  He  had 
been  polite  enough  to  the  Macphails  during  the 
journey,  but  he  had  not  his  wife's  sociability,  and 
had  spent  much  of  his  time  reading.  He  was  a 
silent,  rather  sullen  man,  and  you  felt  that  his  af- 
fability was  a  duty  that  he  imposed  upon  himself 
Christianly;  he  was  by  nature  reserved  and  even 
morose.  His  appearance  was  singular.  He  was 
very  tall  and  thin,  with  long  limbs  loosely  jointed; 
hollow  cheeks  and  curiously  high  cheek-bones;  he 
had  so  cadaverous  an  air  that  it  surprised  you  to 
notice  how  full  and  sensual  were  his  lips.  He  wore 
his  hair  very  long.  His  dark  eyes,  set  deep  in  their 
sockets,  were  large  and  tragic;  and  his  hands  with 
their  big,  long  fingers,  were  finely  shaped;  they  gave 
him  a  look  of  great  strength.  But  the  most  strik- 
ing thing  about  him  was  the  feeling  he  gave  you 


RAIN  249 

of  suppressed  fire.  It  was  impressive  and  vaguely 
troubling.  He  was  not  a  man  with  whom  any  in- 
timacy was  possible. 

He  brought  now  unwelcome  news.  There  was 
an  epidemic  of  measles,  a  serious  and  often  fatal 
disease  among  the  Kanakas,  on  the  island,  and  a  case 
had  developed  among  the  crew  of  the  schooner 
which  was  to  take  them  on  their  journey.  The  sick 
man  had  been  brought  ashore  and  put  in  hospital 
on  the  quarantine  station,  but  telegraphic  instruc- 
tions had  been  sent  from  Apia  to  say  that  the 
schooner  would  not  be  allowed  to  enter  the  harbour 
till  it  was  certain  no  other  member  of  the  crew  was 
affected. 

"It  means  we  shall  have  to  stay  here  for  ten  days 
at  least." 

"But  I'm  urgently  needed  at  Apia,"  said  Dr  Mac- 
phail. 

"That  can't  be  helped.  If  no  more  cases  develop 
on  board,  the  schooner  will  be  allowed  to  sail  with 
white  passengers,  but  all  native  traffic  is  prohibited 
for  three  months." 

"Is  there  a  hotel  here?"  asked  Mrs  Macphail. 

Davidson  gave  a  low  chuckle. 

"There's  not." 

"What  shall  we  do  then?" 

"I've  been  talking  to  the  governor.  There's  a 
trader  along  the  front  who  has  rooms  that  he  rents, 
and  my  proposition  is  that  as  soon  as  the  rain  lets 
up  we  should  go  along  there  and  see  what  we  can 
do.  Don't  expect  comfort.  You've  just  got  to  be 


250  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

thankful  if  we  get  a  bed  to  sleep  on  and  a  roof  over 
our  heads." 

But  the  rain  showed  no  sign  of  stopping,  and  at 
length  with  umbrellas  and  waterproofs  they  set  out. 
There  was  no  town,  but  merely  a  group  of  official 
buildings,  a  store  or  two,  and  at  the  back,  among 
the  coconut  trees  and  plantains,  a  few  native  dwell- 
ings. The  house  they  sought  was  about  five  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  wharf.  It  was  a  frame  house 
of  two  storeys,  with  broad  verandahs  on  both  floors 
and  a  roof  of  corrugated  iron.  The  owner  was 
a  half-caste  named  Horn,  with  a  native  wife  sur- 
rounded by  little  brown  children,  and  on  the  ground- 
floor  he  had  a  store  where  he  sold  canned  goods 
and  cottons.  The  rooms  he  showed  them  were  al- 
most bare  of  furniture.  In  the  Macphails'  there 
was  nothing  but  a  poor,  worn  bed  with  a  ragged  mos- 
quito net,  a  rickety  chair,  and  a  washstand.  They 
looked  round  with  dismay.  The  rain  poured  down 
without  ceasing. 

"I'm  not  going  to  unpack  more  than  we  actually 
need,"  said  Mrs  Macphail. 

Mrs  Davidson  came  into  the  room  as  she  was 
unlocking  a  portmanteau.  She  was  very  brisk  and 
alert.  The  cheerless  surroundings  had  no  effect  on 
her. 

"If  you'll  take  my  advice  you'll  get  a  needle  and 
cotton  and  start  right  in  to  mend  the  mosquito  net," 
she  said,  "or  you'll  not  be  able  to  get  a  wink  of 
sleep  to-night." 

"Will  they  be  very  bad?"  asked  Dr  Macphail. 

"This   is   the   season   for  them.     When   you're 


RAIN  251 

asked  to  a  party  at  Government  House  at  Apia 
you'll  notice  that  all  the  ladies  are  given  a  pillow- 
slip to  put  their — their  lower  extremities  in." 

"I  wish  the  rain  would  stop  for  a  moment,"  said 
Mrs  Macphail.  "I  could  try  to  make  the  place  com- 
fortable with  more  heart  if  the  sun  were  shining." 

"Oh,  if  you  wait  for  that,  you'll  wait  a  long  time. 
Pago-Pago  is  about  the  rainiest  place  in  the  Pa- 
cific. You  see,  the  hills,  and  that  bay,  they  attract 
the  water,  and  one  expects  rain  at  this  time  of  year 
anyway." 

She  looked  from  Macphail  to  his  wife,  standing 
helplessly  in  different  parts  of  the  room,  like  lost 
souls,  and  she  pursed  her  lips.  She  saw  that  she 
must  take  them  in  hand.  Feckless  people  like  that 
made  her  impatient,  but  her  hands  itched  to  put 
everything  in  the  order  which  came  so  naturally 
to  her. 

"Here,  you  give  me  a  needle  and  cotton  and  I'll 
mend  that  net  of  yours,  while  you  go  on  with  your 
unpacking.  Dinner's  at  one.  Dr  Macphail,  you'd 
better  go  down  to  the  wharf  and  see  that  your  heavy 
luggage  has  been  put  in  a  dry  place.  You  know 
what  these  natives  are,  they're  quite  capable  of  stor- 
ing it  where  the  rain  will  beat  in  on  it  all  the  time." 

The  doctor  put  on  his  waterproof  again  and  went 
downstairs.  At  the  door  Mr  Horn  was  standing 
in  conversation  with  the  quartermaster  of  the  ship 
they  had  just  arrived  in  and  a  second-class  passenger 
whom  Dr  Macphail  had  seen  several  times  on  board. 
The  quartermaster,  a  little,  shrivelled  man,  ex- 
tremely dirty,  nodded  to  him  as  he  passed. 


252  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"This  is  a  bad  job  about  the  measles,  doc,"  he 
said.  "I  see  you've  fixed  yourself  up  already." 

Dr  Macphail  thought  he  was  rather  familiar, 
but  he  was  a  timid  man  and  he  did  not  take  offence 
easily. 

"Yes,  we've  got  a  room  upstairs." 

"Miss  Thompson  was  sailing  with  you  to  Apia, 
so  I've  brought  her  along  here." 

The  quartermaster  pointed  with  his  thumb  to 
the  woman  standing  by  his  side.  She  was  twenty- 
seven  perhaps,  plump,  and  in  a  coarse  fashion  pretty. 
She  wore  a  white  dress  and  a  large  white  hat.  Her 
fat  calves  in  white  cotton  stockings  bulged  over 
the  tops  of  long  white  boots  in  glace  kid.  She 
gave  Macphail  an  ingratiating  smile. 

"The  feller's  tryin'  to  soak  me  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  day  for  the  meanest  sized  room,"  she  said 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 

"I  tell  you  she's  a  friend  of  mine,  Jo,"  said  the 
quartermaster.  "She  can't  pay  more  than  a  dollar, 
and  you've  sure  got  to  take  her  for  that." 

The  trader  was  fat  and  smooth  and  quietly 
smiling. 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  like  that,  Mr  Swan,  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  about  it.  I'll  talk  to  Mrs  Horn  and 
if  we  think  we  can  make  a  reduction  we  will." 

"Don't  try  to  pull  that  stuff  with  me,"  said  Miss 
Thompson.  "We'll  settle  this  right  now.  You 
get  a  dollar  a  day  for  the  room  and  not  one  bean 
more." 

Dr  Macphail  smiled.  He  admired  the  effrontery 
with  which  she  bargained.  He  was  the  sort  of  man 


RAIN  253 

who  always  paid  what  he  was  asked.  He  preferred 
to  be  over-charged  than  to  haggle.  The  trader 
sighed. 

"Well,  to  oblige  Mr  Swan  I'll  take  it." 

"That's  the  goods,"  said  Miss  Thompson. 
"Come  right  in  and  have  a  shot  of  hooch.  I've 
got  some  real  good  rye  in  that  grip  if  you'll  bring 
it  along,  Mr  Swan.  You  come  along  too,  doctor." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  will,  thank  you,"  he  an- 
swered. "I'm  just  going  down  to  see  that  our  lug- 
gage is  all  right." 

He  stepped  out  into  the  rain.  It  swept  in  from 
the  opening  of  the  harbour  in  sheets  and  the  op- 
posite shore  was  all  blurred.  He  passed  two  or 
three  natives  clad  in  nothing  but  the  lava-lava,  with 
huge  umbrellas  over  them.  They  walked  finely, 
with  leisurely  movements,  very  upright;  and  they 
smiled  and  greeted  him  in  a  strange  tongue  as  they 
went  by. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  when  he  got  back,  and 
their  meal  was  laid  in  the  trader's  parlour.  It  was 
a  room  designed  not  to  live  in  but  for  purposes  of 
prestige,  and  it  had  a  musty,  melancholy  air.  A 
suite  of  stamped  plush  was  arranged  neatly  round 
the  walls,  and  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling,  pro- 
tected from  the  flies  by  yellow  tissue  paper,  hung 
a  gilt  chandelier.  Davidson  did  not  come. 

"I  know  he  went  to  call  on  the  governor,"  said 
Mrs  Davidson,  "and  I  guess  he's  kept  him  to  din- 


ner." 


A  little  native  girl  brought  them  a  dish  of  Ham- 


254  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

burger  steak,  and  after  a  while  the  trader  came  up 
to  see  that  they  had  everything  they  wanted. 

"I  see  we  have  a  fellow  lodger,  Mr  Horn,"  said 
Dr  Macphail. 

"She's  taken  a  room,  that's  all,"  answered  the 
trader.  "She's  getting  her  own  board." 

He  looked  at  the  two  ladies  with  an  obsequious 
air. 

"I  put  her  downstairs  so  she  shouldn't  be 
in  the  way.  She  won't  be  any  trouble  to  you." 

"Is  it  someone  who  was  on  the  boat?"  asked 
Mrs  Macphail. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  she  was  in  the  second  cabin.  She 
was  going  to  Apia.  She  has  a  position  as  cashier 
waiting  for  her." 

"Oh!" 

When  the  trader  was  gone  Macphail  said: 

"I  shouldn't  think  she'd  find  it  exactly  cheerful 
having  her  meals  in  her  room." 

"If  she  was  in  the  second  cabin  I  guess  she'd 
rather,"  answered  Mrs  Davidson.  "I  don't  exactly 
know  who  it  can  be." 

"I  happened  to  be  there  when  the  quartermaster 
brought  her  along.  Her  name's  Thompson." 

"It's  not  the  woman  who  was  dancing  with  the 
quartermaster  last  night?"  asked  Mrs  Davidson. 

"That's  who  it  must  be,"  said  Mrs  Macphail.  "I 
wondered  at  the  time  what  she  was.  She  looked 
rather  fast  to  me." 

"Not  good  style  at  all,"  said  Mrs  Davidson. 

They  began  to  talk  of  other  things,  and  after 
dinner,  tired  with  their  early  rise,  they  separated 


RAIN  255 

and  slept.  When  they  awoke,  though  the  sky  was 
still  grey  and  the  clouds  hung  low,  it  was  not  rain- 
ing and  they  went  for  a  walk  on  the  high  road 
which  the  Americans  had  built  along  the  bay. 

On  their  return  they  found  that  Davidson  had 
just  come  in. 

"We  may  be  here  for  a  fortnight,"  he  said 
irritably.  "I've  argued  it  out  with  the  governor, 
but  he  says  there  is  nothing  to  be  done." 

"Mr  Davidson's  just  longing  to  get  back  to  his 
work,"  said  his  wife,  with  an  anxious  glance  at  him. 

"We've  been  away  for  a  year,"  he  said,  walking 
up  and  down  the  verandah.  "The  mission  has  been 
in  charge  of  native  missionaries  and  I'm  terribly 
nervous  that  they've  let  things  slide.  They're  good 
men,  I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  them,  God-fear- 
ing, devout,  and  truly  Christian  men — their  Chris- 
tianity would  put  many  so-called  Christians  at  home 
to  the  blush — but  they're  pitifully  lacking  in  energy. 
They  can  make  a  stand  once,  they  can  make  a  stand 
twice,  but  they  can't  make  a  stand  all  the  time.  If 
you  leave  a  mission  in  charge  of  a  native  mission- 
ary, no  matter  how  trustworthy  he  seems,  in  course 
of  time  you'll  find  he's  let  abuses  creep  in." 

Mr  Davidson  stood  still.  With  his  tall,  spare 
form,  and  his  great  eyes  flashing  out  of  his  pale 
face,  he  was  an  impressive  figure.  His  sincerity 
was  obvious  in  the  fire  of  his  gestures  and  in  his 
deep,  ringing  voice. 

"I  expect  to  have  my  work  cut  out  for  me.  I 
shall  act  and  I  shall  act  promptly.  If  the  tree  is 
rotten  it  shall  be  cut  down  and  cast  into  the  flames." 


256  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

And  in  the  evening  after  the  high  tea  which  was 
their  last  meal,  while  they  sat  in  the  stiff  parlour, 
the  ladies  working  and  Dr  Macphail  smoking  his 
pipe,  the  missionary  told  them  of  his  work  in  the 
islands. 

"When  we  went  there  they  had  no  sense  of  sin 
at  all,"  he  said.  "They  broke  the  commandments 
one  after  the  other  and  never  knew  they  were  doing 
wrong.  And  I  think  that  was  the  most  difficult  part 
of  my  work,  to  instil  into  the  natives  the  sense  of 


sin." 


The  Macphails  knew  already  that  Davidson  had 
worked  in  the  Solomons  for  five  years  before  he 
met  his  wife.  She  had  been  a  missionary  in  China, 
and  they  had  become  acquainted  in  Boston,  where 
they  were  -both  spending  part  of  their  leave  to  at- 
tend a  missionary  congress.  On  their  marriage  they 
had  been  appointed  to  the  islands  in  which  they 
had  laboured  ever  since. 

In  the  course  of  all  the  conversations  they  had 
had  with  Mr  Davidson  one  thing  had  shone  out 
clearly  and  that  was  the  man's  unflinching  courage. 
He  was  a  medical  missionary,  and  he  was  liable  to 
be  called  at  any  time  to  one  or  other  of  the  islands 
in  the  group.  Even  the  whaleboat  is  not  so  very 
safe  a  conveyance  in  the  stormy  Pacific  of  the  wet 
season,  but  often  he  would  be  sent  for  in  a  canoe, 
and  then  the  danger  was  great.  In  cases  of  illness 
or  accident  he  never  hesitated.  A  dozen  times  he 
had  spent  the  whole  night  baling  for  his  life,  and 
more  than  once  Mrs  Davidson  had  given  him  up  for 
lost. 


RAIN  257 

"I'd  beg  him  not  to  go  sometimes,"  she  said,  "or 
at  least  to  wait  till  the  weather  was  more  settled, 
but  he'd  never  listen.  He's  obstinate,  and  when 
he's  once  made  up  his  mind,  nothing  can  move  him." 

"How  can  I  ask  the  natives  to  put  their  trust  in 
the  Lord  if  I  am  afraid  to  do  so  myself?"  cried 
Davidson.  "And  I'm  not,  I'm  not.  They  know 
that  if  they  send  for  me  in  their  trouble  I'll  come 
if  it's  humanly  possible.  And  do  you  think  the 
Lord  is  going  to  abandon  me  when  I  am  on  his 
business?  The  wind  blows  at  his  bidding  and  the 
waves  toss  and  rage  at  his  word." 

Dr  Macphail  was  a  timid  man.  He  had  never 
been  able  to  get  used  to  the  hurtling  of  the  shells 
over  the  trenches,  and  when  he  was  operating  in 
an  advanced  dressing-station  the  sweat  poured  from 
his  brow  and  dimmed  his  spectacles  in  the  effort  he 
made  to  control  his  unsteady  hand.  He  shuddered 
a  little  as  he  looked  at  the  missionary. 

"I  wish  I  could  say  that  I've  never  been  afraid," 
he  said. 

"I  wish  you  could  say  that  you  believed  in  God," 
retorted  the  other. 

But  for  some  reason,  that  evening  the  mission- 
ary's thoughts  travelled  back  to  the  early  days  he 
and  his  wife  had  spent  on  the  islands. 

"Sometimes  Mrs  Davidson  and  I  would  look  at 
one  another  and  the  tears  would  stream  down  our 
cheeks.  We  worked  without  ceasing,  day  and  night, 
and  we  seemed  to  make  no  progress.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  her  then.  When 


£58  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

I  felt  my  heart  sink,  when  I  was  very  near  despair, 
she  gave  me  courage  and  hope." 

Mrs  Davidson  looked  down  at  her  work,  and  a 
slight  colour  rose  to  her  thin  cheeks.  Her  hands 
trembled  a  little.  She  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"We  had  no  one  to  help  us.  We  were  alone, 
thousands  of  miles  from  any  of  our  own  people, 
surrounded  by  darkness.  When  I  was  broken  and 
weary  she  would  put  her  work  aside  and  take  the 
Bible  and  read  to  me  till  peace  came  and  settled 
upon  me  like  sleep  upon  the  eyelids  of  a  child,  and 
when  at  last  she  closed  the  book  she'd  say:  'We'll 
save  them  in  spite  of  themselves.'  And  I  felt  strong 
again  in  the  Lord,  and  I  answered:  'Yes,  with 
God's  help  I'll  save  them.  I  must  save  them.'  ' 

He  came  over  to  the  table  and  stood  in  front 
of  it  as  though  it  were  a  lectern. 

"You  see,  they  were  so  naturally  depraved  that 
they  couldn't  be  brought  to  see  their  wickedness. 
We  had  to  make  sins  out  of  what  they  thought  were 
natural  actions.  We  had  to  make  it  a  sin,  not  only 
to  commit  adultery  and  to  lie  and  thieve,  but  to  ex- 
pose their  bodies,  and  to  dance  and  not  to  come  to 
church.  I  made  it  a  sin  for  a  girl  to  show  her  bosom 
and  a  sin  for  a  man  not  to  wear  trousers." 

"How?"  asked  Dr  Macphail,  not  without  sur- 
prise. 

"I  instituted  fines.  Obviously  the  only  way  to 
make  people  realise  that  an  action  is  sinful  is  to 
punish  them  if  they  commit  it.  I  fined  them  if  they 
didn't  come  to  church,  and  I  fined  them  if  they 
danced.  I  fined  them  if  they  were  improperly 


RAIN  259 

dressed.  I  had  a  tariff,  and  every  sin  had  to  be  paid 
for  either  in  money  or  work.  And  at  last  I  made 
them  understand." 

"But  did  they  never  refuse  to  pay?" 

"How  could  they?"  asked  the  missionary. 

"It  would  be  a  brave  man  who  tried  to  stand  up 
against  Mr  Davidson,"  said  his  wife,  tightening  her 
lips. 

Dr.  Macphail  looked  at  Davidson  with  troubled 
eyes.  What  he  heard  shocked  him,  but  he  hesitated 
to  express  his  disapproval. 

"You  must  remember  that  in  the  last  resort  I 
could  expel  them  from  their  church  membership." 

"Did  they  mind  that?" 

Davidson  smiled  a  little  and  gently  rubbed  his 
hands. 

"They  couldn't  sell  their  copra.  When  the  men 
fished  they  got  no  share  of  the  catch.  It  meant 
something  very  like  starvation.  Yes,  they  minded 
quite  a  lot." 

"Tell  him  about  Fred  Ohlson,"  said  Mrs  Da- 
vidson. 

The  missionary  fixed  his  fiery  eyes  on  Dr  Mac- 
phail. 

"Fred  Ohlson  was  a  Danish  trader  who  had  been 
in  the  islands  a  good  many  years.  He  was  a  pretty 
rich  man  as  traders  go  and  he  wasn't  very  pleased 
when  we  came.  You  see,  he'd  had  things  very  much 
his  own  way.  He  paid  the  natives  what  he  liked 
for  their  copra,  and  he  paid  in  goods  and  whiskey. 
He  had  a  native  wife,  but  he  was  flagrantly  un- 
faithful to  her.  He  was  a  drunkard.  I  gave  him 


260  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

a  chance  to  mend  his  ways,  but  he  wouldn't  take  it 
He  laughed  at  me." 

Davidson's  voice  fell  to  a  deep  bass  as  he  said 
the  last  words,  and  he  was  silent  for  a  minute  or 
two.  The  silence  was  heavy  with  menace. 

"In  two  years  he  was  a  ruined  man.  He'd  lost 
everything  he'd  saved  in  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
I  broke  him,  and  at  last  he  was  forced  to  come 
to  me  like  a  beggar  and  beseech  me  to  give  him 
a  passage  back  to  Sydney." 

*'I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  when  he  came 
to  see  Mr  Davidson,"  said  the  missionary's  wife. 
"He  had  been  a  fine,  powerful  man,  with  a  lot 
of  fat  on  him,  and  he  had  a  great  big  voice,  but 
now  he  was  half  the  size,  and  he  was  shaking  all 
over.  He'd  suddenly  become  an  old  man." 

With  abstracted  gaze  Davidson  looked  out  into 
the  night.  The  rain  was  falling  again. 

Suddenly  from  below  came  a  sound,  and  David- 
son turned  and  looked  questioningly  at  his  wife. 
It  was  the  sound  of  a  gramophone,  harsh  and  loud, 
wheezing  out  a  syncopated  tune. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

Mrs  Davidson  fixed  her  pince-nez  more  firmly 
on  her  nose. 

"One  of  the  second-class  passengers  has  a  room 
in  the  house.  I  guess  it  comes  from  there." 

They  listened  in  silence,  and  presently  they  heard 
the  sound  of  dancing.  Then  the  music  stopped,  and 
they  heard  the  popping  of  corks  and  voices  raised 
in  animated  conversation. 

"I  daresay  she's  giving  a  farewell  party  to  her 


RAIN  261 

friends  on  board,"  said  Dr  Macphail.  "The  ship 
sails  at  twelve,  doesn't  it?" 

Davidson  made  no  remark,  but  he  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"Are  you  ready?"  he  asked  his  wife. 

She  got  up  and  folded  her  work. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  am,"  she  answered. 

"It's  early  to  go  to  bed  yet,  isn't  it?"  said  the 
doctor. 

"We  have  a  good  deal  of  reading  to  do,"  ex- 
plained Mrs  Davidson.  "Wherever  we  are,  we 
read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible  before  retiring  for  the 
night  and  we  study  it  with  the  commentaries,  you 
know,  and  discuss  it  thoroughly.  It's  a  wonderful 
training  for  the  mind." 

The  two  couples  bade  one  another  good  night. 
Dr  and  Mrs  Macphail  were  left  alone.  For  two 
or  three  minutes  they  did  not  speak. 

"I  think  I'll  go  and  fetch  the  cards,"  the  doctor 
said  at  last. 

Mrs  Macphail  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  Her 
conversation  with  the  Davidsons  had  left  her  a 
little  uneasy,  but  she  did  not  like  to  say  that  she 
thought  they  had  better  not  play  cards  when  the 
Davidsons  might  come  in  at  any  moment.  Dr 
Macphail  brought  them  and  she  watched  him, 
though  with  a  vague  sense  of  guilt,  while  he  laid 
out  his  patience.  Below  the  sound  of  revelry  con- 
tinued. 

It  was  fine  enough  next  day,  and  the  Macphails, 
condemned  to  spend  a  fortnight  of  idleness  at  Pago- 
Pago,  set  about  making  the  best  of  things.  They 


262 

went  down  to  the  quay  and  got  out  of  their  boxes 
a  number  of  books.  The  doctor  called  on  the  chief 
surgeon  of  the  naval  hospital  and  went  round  the 
beds  with  him.  They  left  cards  on  the  governor. 
They  passed  Miss  Thompson  on  the  road.  The 
doctor  took  off  his  hat,  and  she  gave  him  a  "Good 
morning,  doc.,"  in  a  loud,  cheerful  voice.  She  was 
dressed  as  on  the  day  before,  in  a  white  frock, 
and  her  shiny  white  boots  with  their  high  heels,  her 
fat  legs  bulging  over  the  tops  of  them,  were  strange 
things  on  that  exotic  scene. 

"I  don't  think  she's  very  suitably  dressed,  I  must 
say,"  said  Mrs  Macphail.  "She  looks  extremely 
common  to  me." 

When  they  got  back  to  their  house,  she  was  on 
the  verandah  playing  with  one  of  the  trader's  dark 
children. 

"Say  a  word  to  her,"  Dr  Macphail  whispered  to 
his  wife.  "She's  all  alone  here,  and  it  seems  rather 
unkind  to  ignore  her." 

Mrs  Macphail  was  shy,  but  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  doing  what  her  husband  bade  her. 

"I  think  we're  fellow  lodgers  here,"  she  said, 
rather  foolishly. 

"Terrible,  ain't  it,  bein'  cooped  up  in  a  one-horse 
burg  like  this?"  answered  Miss  Thompson.  "And 
they  tell  me  I'm  lucky  to  have  gotten  a  room.  I 
don't  see  myself  livin'  in  a  native  house,  and  that's 
what  some  have  to  do.  I  don't  know  why  they 
don't  have  a  hotel." 

They  exchanged  a  few  more  words.  Miss 
Thompson,  loud-voiced  and  garrulous,  was  evi- 


RAIN  263 

dently  quite  willing  to  gossip,  but  Mrs  Macphail 
had  a  poor  stock  of  small  talk  and  presently  she 
said  : 

"Well,  I  think  we  must  go  upstairs." 

In  the  evening  when  they  sat  down  to  their  high- 
tea  Davidson  on  coming  in  said: 

"I  see  that  woman  downstairs  has  a  couple  of 
sailors  sitting  there.  I  wonder  how  she's  gotten 
acquainted  with  them." 

"She  can't  be  very  particular,"  said  Mrs  David- 
son. 

They  were  all  rather  tired  after  the  idle,  aimless 
day. 

"If  there's  going  to  be  a  fortnight  of  this  I  don't 
know  what  we  shall  feel  like  at  the  end  of  it,"  said 
Dr  Macphail. 

"The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  portion  out  the  day 
to  different  activities,"  answered  the  missionary.  "I 
shall  set  aside  a  certain  number  of  hours  to  study 
and  a  certain  number  to  exercise,  rain  or  fine — in 
the  wet  season  you  can't  afford  to  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  the  rain — and  a  certain  number  to  recrea- 
tion." 

Dr  Macphail  looked  at  his  companion  with  mis- 
giving. Davidson's  programme  oppressed  him. 
They  were  eating  Hamburger  steak  again.  It 
seemed  the  only  dish  the  cook  knew  how  to  make. 
Then  below  the  gramophone  began.  Davidson 
started  nervously  when  he  heard  it,  but  said  noth- 
ing. Men's  voices  floated  up.  Miss  Thompson's 
guests  were  joining  in  a  well-known  song  and  pres- 
ently they  heard  her  voice  too,  hoarse  and  loud. 


264-  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  shouting  and  laughing. 
The  four  people  upstairs,  trying  to  make  conversa- 
tion, listened  despite  themselves  to  the  clink  of 
glasses  and  the  scrape  of  chairs.  More  people  had 
evidently  come.  Miss  Thompson  was  giving  a  party. 

"I  wonder  how  she  gets  them  all  in,"  said  Mrs 
Macphail,  suddenly  breaking  into  a  medical  conver- 
sation between  the  missionary  and  her  husband. 

It  showed  whither  her  thoughts  were  wandering. 
The  twitch  of  Davidson's  face  proved  that,  though 
he  spoke  of  scientific  things,  his  mind  was  busy  in 
the  same  direction.  Suddenly,  while  the  doctor  was 
giving  some  experience  of  practice  on  the  Flanders 
front,  rather  prosily,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
a  cry. 

"What's  the  matter,  Alfred?"  asked  Mrs  Da- 
vidson. 

"Of  course !  It  never  occurred  to  me.  She's  out 
of  Iwelei." 

"She  can't  be." 

"She  came  on  board  at  Honolulu.  It's  obvious. 
And  she's  carrying  on  her  trade  here.  Here." 

He  uttered  the  last  word  with  a  passion  of  UK 
dignation. 

"What's  Iwelei?"  asked  Mrs  Macphail. 

He  turned  his  gloomy  eyes  on  her  and  his  voice 
trembled  with  horror. 

"The  plague  spot  of  Honolulu.  The  Red  Light 
district.  It  was  a  blot  on  our  civilisation." 

Iwelei  was  on  the  edge  of  the  city.  You  went 
down  side  streets  by  the  harbour,  in  the  darkness, 
across  a  rickety  bridge,  till  you  came  to  a  deserted 


RAIN  265 

road,  all  ruts  and  holes,  and  then  suddenly  you 
came  out  into  the  light.  There  was  parking  room 
for  motors  on  each  side  of  the  road,  and  there  were 
saloons,  tawdry  and  bright,  each  one  noisy  with  its 
mechanical  piano,  and  there  were  barbers'  shops  and 
tobacconists.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  air  and  a 
sense  of  expectant  gaiety.  You  turned  down  a  nar- 
row alley,  either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  for  the 
road  divided  Iwelei  into  two  parts,  and  you  found 
yourself  in  the  district.  There  were  rows  of  little 
bungalows,  trim  and  neatly  painted  in  green,  and 
the  pathway  between  them  was  broad  and  straight. 
It  was  laid  out  like  a  garden-city.  In  its  respectable 
regularity,  its  order  and  spruceness,  it  gave  an  im- 
pression of  sardonic  horror;  for  never  can  the  search 
for  love  have  been  so  systematised  and  ordered.  The 
pathways  were  lit  by  a  rare  lamp,  but  they  would 
have  been  dark  except  for  the  lights  that  came  from 
the  open  windows  of  the  bungalows.  Men  wandered 
about,  looking  at  the  women  who  sat  at  their  win- 
dows, reading  or  sewing,  for  the  most  part  taking 
no  notice  of  the  passers-by;  and  like  the  women  they 
were  of  all  nationalities.  There  were  Americans, 
sailors  from  the  ships  in  port,  enlisted  men  off  the 
gunboats,  sombrely  drunk,  and  soldiers  from  the 
regiments,  white  and  black,  quartered  on  the  island; 
there  were  Japanese,  walking  in  twos  and  threes; 
Hawaiians,  Chinese  in  long  robes,  and  Filipinos  in 
preposterous  hats.  They  were  silent  and  as  it  were 
oppressed.  Desire  is  sad. 

"It  was  the  most  crying  scandal  of  the  Pacific," 
exclaimed    Davidson   vehemently.      "The   mission- 


266  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

aries  had  been  agitating  against  it  for  years,  and 
at  last  the  local  press  took  it  up.  The  police  re- 
fused to  stir.  You  know  their  argument.  They 
say  that  vice  is  inevitable  and  consequently  the  best 
thing  is  to  localise  and  control  it.  The  truth  is, 
they  were  paid.  Paid.  They  were  paid  by  the 
saloon-keepers,  paid  by  the  bullies,  paid  by  the 
women  themselves.  At  last  they  were  forced  to 
move." 

"I  read  about  it  in  the  papers  that  came  on 
board  in  Honolulu,"  said  Dr  Macphail. 

"Iwelei,  with  its  sin  and  shame,  ceased  to  exist  on 
the  very  day  we  arrived.  The  whole  population 
was  brought  before  the  justices.  I  don't  know  why 
I  didn't  understand  at  once  what  that  woman  was." 

"Now  you  come  to  speak  of  it,"  said  Mrs  Mac- 
phail, "I  remember  seeing  her  come  on  board  only 
a  few  minutes  before  the  boat  sailed.  I  remember 
thinking  at  the  time  she  was  cutting  it  rather  fine." 

"How  dare  she  come  here!"  cried  Davidson  in- 
dignantly. "I'm  not  going  to  allow  it." 

He  strode  towards  the  door. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  MacphaiL 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?  I'm  going  to 
stop  it.  I'm  not  going  to  have  this  house  turned 
into — into  .  .  ." 

He  sought  for  a  word  that  should  not  offend  the 
ladies'  ears.  Hia  eyes  were  flashing  and  his  pale 
face  was  paler  still  in  his  emotion. 

"It  sounds  as  though  there  were  three  or  four 
men  down  there,"  said  the  doctor.  "Don't  you  think 
it's  rather  rash  to  go  in  just  now?" 


RAIN  267 

The  missionary  gave  him  a  contemptuous  look 
and  without  a  word  flung  out  of  the  room. 

"You  know  Mr  Davidson  very  little  if  you  think 
the  fear  of  personal  danger  can  stop  him  in  the  per- 
formance of  his  duty,"  said  his  wife. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  nervously  clasped,  a  spot 
of  colour  on  her  high  cheek  bones,  listening  to  what 
was  about  to  happen  below.  They  all  listened.  They 
heard  him  clatter  down  the  wooden  stairs  and  throw 
open  the  door.  The  singing  stopped  suddenly,  but 
the  gramophone  continued  to  bray  out  its  vulgar 
tune.  They  heard  Davidson's  voice  and  then  the 
noise  of  something  heavy  falling.  The  music 
stopped.  He  had  hurled  the  gramophone  on  the 
floor.  Then  again  they  heard  Davidson's  voice, 
they  could  not  make  out  the  words,  then  Miss 
Thompson's,  loud  and  shrill,  then  a  confused  clam- 
our as  though  several  people  were  shouting  together 
at  the  top  of  their  lungs.  Mrs  Davidson  gave  a 
little  gasp,  and  she  clenched  her  hands  more  tightly. 
Dr  Macphail  looked  uncertainly  from  her  to  his 
wife.  He  did  not  want  to  go  down,  but  he  won- 
dered if  they  expected  him  to.  Then  there  was 
something  that  sounded  like  a  scuffle.  The  noise 
now  was  more  distinct.  It  might  be  that  Davidson 
was  being  thrown  out  of  the  room.  The  door 
was  slammed.  There  was  a  moment's  silence  and 
they  heard  Davidson  come  up  the  stairs  again.  He 
went  to  his  room. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  him,"  said  Mrs  Davidson. 

She  got  up  and  went  out. 

"If  you  want  me,  just  call,"  said  Mrs  Macphail, 


268  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  then  when  the  other  was  gone:  "I  hope  he 
isn't  hurt." 

"Why  couldn't  he  mind  his  own  business?"  said 
Dr  Macphail. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two  and  then 
they  both  started,  for  the  gramophone  began  to  play 
once  more,  defiantly,  and  mocking  voices  shouted 
hoarsely  the  words  of  an  obscene  song. 

Next  day  M-  s  Davidson  was  pale  and  tired. 
She  complained  of  headache,  and  she  looked  old 
and  wizened.  She  told  Mrs  Macphail  that  the  mis- 
sionary had  not  slept  at  all;  he  had  passed  the  night 
in  a  state  of  frightful  agitation  and  at  five  had  got 
up  and  gone  out.  A  glass  of  beer  had  been  thrown 
over  him  and  his  clothes  were  stained  and  stinking. 
But  a  sombre  fire  glowed  in  Mrs  Davidson's  eyes 
when  she  spoke  of  Miss  Thompson. 

"She'll  bitterly  rue  the  day  when  she  flouted  Mr 
Davidson,"  she  said.  "Mr  Davidson  has  a  won- 
derful heart  and  no  one  who  is  in  trouble  has  ever 
gone  to  him  without  being  comforted,  but  he  has 
no  mercy  for  sin,  and  when  his  righteous  wrath  is 
excited  he's  terrible." 

"Why,  what  will  he  do?"  asked  Mrs  Macphail. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  wouldn't  stand  in  that  crea- 
ture's shoes  for  anything  in  the  world." 

Mrs  Macphail  shuddered.  There  was  something 
positively  alarming  in  the  triumphant  assurance  of 
the  little  woman's  manner.  They  were  going  out 
together  that  morning,  and  they  went  down  the 
stairs  side  by  side.  Miss  Thompson's  door  was 


RAIN  269 

open,  and  they  saw  her  in  a  bedraggled  dressing- 
gown,  cooking  something  in  a  chafing-dish. 

"Good  morning,"  she  called.  "Is  Mr  Davidson 
better  this  morning?" 

They  passed  her  in  silence,  with  their  noses  in  the 
air,  as  if  she  did  not  exist.  They  flushed,  however, 
when  she  burst  into  a  shout  of  derisive  laughter. 
Mrs  Davidson  turned  on  her  suddenly. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  speak  to  me,"  she  screamed. 
"If  you  insult  me  I  shall  have  you  turned  out  of 
here." 

"Say,  did  I  ask  Mr  Davidson  to  visit  with  me?'* 

"Don't  answer  her,"  whispered  Mrs  Macphail 
hurriedly. 

They  walked  on  till  they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"She's  brazen,  brazen,"  burst  from  Mrs  David- 
son. 

Her  anger  almost  suffocated  her. 

And  on  their  way  home  they  met  her  strolling 
towards  the  quay.  She  had  all  her  finery  on.  Her 
great  white  hat  with  its  vulgar,  showy  flowers  was 
an  affront.  She  called  out  cheerily  to  them  as  she 
went  by,  and  a  couple  of  American  sailors  who 
were  standing  there  grinned  as  the  ladies  set  their 
faces  to  an  icy  stare.  They  got  in  just  before  the 
rain  began  to  fall  again. 

"I  guess  she'll  get  her  fine  clothes  spoilt,"  said 
Mrs  Davidson  with  a  bitter  sneer. 

Davidson  did  not  come  in  till  they  were  half 
way  through  dinner.  He  was  wet  through,  but  he 
would  not  change.  He  sat,  morose  and  silent,  re- 
fusing to  eat  more  than  a  mouthful,  and  he  stared 


270  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

at  the  slanting  rain.  When  Mrs  Davidson  told 
him  of  their  two  encounters  with  Miss  Thompson 
he  did  not  answer.  His  deepening  frown  alone 
showed  that  he  had  heard. 

"Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  make  Mr  Horn 
turn  her  out  of  here?"  asked  Mrs  Davidson.  "We 
can't  allow  her  to  insult  us." 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  other  place  for 
her  to  go,"  said  Macphail. 

"She  can  live  with  one  of  the  natives." 

"In  weather  like  this  a  native  hut  must  be  a  rather 
uncomfortable  place  to  live  in." 

"I  lived  in  one  for  years,"  said  the  missionary. 

When  the  little  native  girl  brought  in  the  fried 
bananas  which  formed  the  sweet  they  had  every 
day,  Davidson  turned  to  her. 

"Ask  Miss  Thompson  when  it  would  be  conve- 
nient for  me  to  see  her,"  he  said. 

The  girl  nodded  shyly  and  went  out. 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  her  for,  Alfred?" 
asked  his  wife. 

"It's  my  duty  to  see  her.  I  won't  act  till  I've 
given  her  every  chance." 

"You  don't  know  what  she  is.    She'll  insult  you." 

"Let  her  insult  me.  Let  her  spit  on  me.  She 
has  an  immortal  soul,  and  I  must  do  all  that  is  in 
my  power  to  save  it." 

Mrs  Davidson's  ears  rang  still  with  the  harlot's 
mocking  laughter. 

"She's  gone  too  far." 

"Too  far  for  the  mercy  of  God?"  His  eyes  lit 
up  suddenly  and  his  voice  grew  mellow  and  soft. 


RAIN  271 

"Never.  The  sinner  may  be  deeper  in  sin  than 
the  depth  of  hell  itself,  but  the  love  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  can  reach  him  still." 

The  girl  came  back  with  the  message. 

"Miss  Thompson's  compliments  and  as  long  as 
Rev.  Davidson  don't  come  in  business  hours  she'll 
be  glad  to  see  him  any  time." 

The  party  received  it  in  stony  silence,  and  Dr 
Macphail  quickly  effaced  from  his  lips  the  smile 
which  had  come  upon  them.  He  knew  his  wife 
would  be  vexed  with  him  if  he  found  Miss  Thomp- 
son's effrontery  amusing. 

They  finished  the  meal  in  silence.  When  it  was 
over  the  two  ladies  got  up  and  took  their  work, 
Mrs  Macphail  was  making  another  of  the  innumer- 
able comforters  which  she  had  turned  out  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  and  the  doctor  lit  his  pipe. 
But  Davidson  remained  in  his  chair  and  with  ab- 
stracted eyes  stared  at  the  table.  At  last  he  got 
up  and  without  a  word  went  out  of  the  room.  They 
heard  him  go  down  and  they  heard  Miss  Thomp- 
son's defiant  "Come  in"  when  he  knocked  at  the 
door.  He  remained  with  her  for  an  hour.  And  Dr 
Macphail  watched  the  rain.  It  was  beginning  to  get 
on  his  nerves.  It  was  not  like  our  soft  English  rain 
that  drops  gently  on  the  earth;  it  was  unmerciful 
and  somehow  terrible;  you  felt  in  it  the  malignancy 
of  the  primitive  powers  of  nature.  It  did  not  pour, 
it  flowed.  It  was  like  a  deluge  from  heaven,  and 
it  rattled  on  the  roof  of  corrugated  iron  with  a 
steady  persistence  that  was  maddening.  It  seemed 
to  have  a  fury  of  its  own.  And  sometimes  you 


272  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

felt  that  you  must  scream  if  it  did  not  stop,  and 
then  suddenly  you  felt  powerless,  as  though  your 
bones  had  suddenly  become  soft;  and  you  were  mis- 
erable and  hopeless. 

Macphail  turned  his  head  when  the  missionary 
came  back.  The  two  women  looked  up. 

"I've  given  her  every  chance.  I  have  exhorted 
her  to  repent.  She  is  an  evil  woman." 

He  paused,  and  Dr  Macphail  saw  his  eyes  darken 
and  his  pale  face  grow  hard  and  stern. 

"Now  I  shall  take  the  whips  with  which  the  Lord 
Jesus  drove  the  usurers  and  the  money  changers  out 
of  the  Temple  of  the  Most  High." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  His  mouth 
was  close  set,  and  his  black  brows  were  frowning. 

"If  she  fled  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
I  should  pursue  her." 

With  a  sudden  movement  he  turned  round  and 
strode  out  of  the  room.  They  heard  him  go  down- 
stairs again. 

"What  is  he  going  to  do?"  asked  Mrs  Macphail. 

"I  don't  know."  Mrs  Davidson  took  off  her 
pince-nez  and  wiped  them.  "When  he  is  on  the 
Lord's  work  I  never  ask  him  questions." 

She  sighed  a  little. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"He'll  wear  himself  out.  He  doesn't  know  what 
it  is  to  spare  himself." 

Dr  Macphail  learnt  the  first  results  of  the  mis- 
sionary's activity  from  the  half-caste  trader  in 
whose  house  they  lodged.  He  stopped  the  doctor 


RAIN  273 

when  he  passed  the  store  and  came  out  to  speak 
to  him  on  the  stoop.  His  fat  face  was  worried. 

"The  Rev.  Davidson  has  been  at  me  for  letting 
Miss  Thompson  have  a  room  here,"  he  said,  "but 
I  didn't  know  what  she  was  when  I  rented  it  to  her. 
When  people  come  and  ask  if  I  can  rent  them  a 
room  alt  I  want  to  know  is  if  they've  the  money 
to  pay  for  it.  And  she  paid  me  for  hers  a  week 
in  advance." 

Dr  Macphail  did  not  want  to  commit  himself. 

"When  all's  said  and  done  it's  your  house. 
We're  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  taking  us  in 
at  all." 

Horn  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  He  was  not  cer- 
tain yet  how  definitely  Macphail  stood  on  the  mis- 
sionary's side. 

"The  missionaries  are  in  with  one  another,"  he 
said,  hesitatingly.  "If  they  get  it  in  for  a  trader 
he  may  just  as  well  shut  up  his  store  and  quit." 

"Did  he  want  you  to  turn  her  out?" 

"No,  he  said  so  long  as  she  behaved  herself  he 
couldn't  ask  me  to  do  that.  He  said  he  wanted  to 
be  just  to  me.  I  promised  she  shouldn't  have  no 
more  visitors.  I've  just  been  and  told  her." 

"How  did  she  take  it?" 

"She  gave  me  Hell." 

The  trader  squirmed  in  his  old  ducks.  He  had 
found  Miss  Thompson  a  rough  customer. 

"Oh,  well,  I  daresay  she'll  get  out.  I  don't  sup- 
pose she  wants  to  stay  here  if  she  can't  have  any- 
one in." 

"There's  nowhere  she  can  go,  only  a  native  house, 


274  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  no  native'll  take  her  now,  not  now  that  the 
missionaries  have  got  their  knife  in  her." 

Dr  Macphail  looked  at  the  falling  rain. 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  it's  any  good  waiting  for 
it  to  clear  up." 

In  the  evening  when  they  sat  in  the  parlour  Da- 
vidson talked  to  them  of  his  early  days  at  college. 
He  had  had  no  means  and  had  worked  his  way 
through  by  doing  odd  jobs  during  the  vacations. 
There  was  silence  downstairs.  Miss  Thompson  was 
sitting  in  her  little  room  alone.  But  suddenly  the 
gramophone  began  to  play.  She  had  set  it  on  in 
defiance,  to  cheat  her  loneliness,  but  there  was  no 
one  to  sing,  and  it  had  a  melancholy  note.  It 
was  like  a  cry  for  help.  Davidson  took  no  notice. 
He  was  in  the  middle  of  a  long  anecdote  and  with- 
out change  of  expression  went  on.  The  gramo- 
phone continued.  Miss  Thompson  put  on  one  reel 
after  another.  It  looked  as  though  the  silence  of 
the  night  were  getting  on  her  nerves.  It  was  breath- 
less and  sultry.  When  the  Macphails  went  to  bed 
they  could  not  sleep.  They  lay  side  by  side  with 
their  eyes  wide  open,  listening  to  the  cruel  singing 
of  the  mosquitoes  outside  their  curtain. 

"What's  that?"  whispered  Mrs  Macphail  at  last. 

They  heard  a  voice,  Davidson's  voice,  through 
the  wooden  partition.  It  went  on  with  a  monot' 
onous,  earnest  insistence.  He  was  praying  aloud. 
He  was  praying  for  the  soul  of  Miss  Thompson. 

Two  or  three  days  went  by.  Now  when  they 
passed  Miss  Thompson  on  the  road  she  did  not 
greet  them  with  ironic  cordiality  or  smile;  she 


RAIN  275 

passed  with  her  nose  in  the  air,  a  sulky  look  on  her 
painted  face,  frowning,  as  though  she  did  not  see 
them.  The  trader  told  Macphail  that  she  had  tried 
to  get  lodging  elsewhere,  but  had  failed.  In  the 
evening  she  played  through  the  various-  reels  of  her 
gramophone,  but  the  pretence  of  mirth  was  obvious 
now.  The  ragtime  had  a  cracked,  heart-broken 
rhythm  as  though  it  were  a  one-step  of  despair. 
When  she  began  to  play  on  Sunday  Davidson  sent 
Horn  to  beg  her  to  stop  at  once  since  it  was  the 
Lord's  day.  The  reel  was  taken  off  and  the  house 
was  silent  except  for  the  steady  pattering  of  the  rain 
on  the  iron  roof. 

"I  think  she's  getting  a  bit  worked  up,"  said  the 
trader  next  day  to  Macphail.  "She  don't  know 
what  Mr  Davidson's  up  to  and  it  makes  her  scared." 

Macphail  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  that  morn- 
ing and  it  struck  him  that  her  arrogant  expression 
had  changed.  There  was  in  her  face  a  hunted 
look.  The  half-caste  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  what  Mr  Davidson 
is  doing  about  it?"  he  hazarded. 

"No,  I  don't." 

It  was  singular  that  Horn  should  ask  him  that 
question,  for  he  also  had  the  idea  that  the  mission- 
ary was  mysteriously  at  work.  He  had  an  impres- 
sion that  he  was  weaving  a  net  around  the  woman, 
carefully,  systematically,  and  suddenly,  when  every- 
thing was  ready  would  pull  the  strings  tight. 

"He  told  me  to  tell  her,"  said  the  trader,  "that 
if  at  any  time  she  wanted  him  she  only  had  to  send 
and  he'd  come." 


276  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"What  did  she  say  when  you  told  her  that?" 

"She  didn't  say  nothing.  I  didn't  stop.  I  just 
said  what  he  said  I  was  to  and  then  I  beat  it.  I 
thought  she  might  be  going  to  start  weepin'." 

"I  have  no  doubt  the  loneliness  is  getting  on  her 
nerves,"  said  the  doctor.  "And  the  rain — that's 
enough  to  make  anyone  jumpy,"  he  continued  irri- 
tably. "Doesn't  it  ever  stop  in  this  confounded 
place?" 

"It  goes  on  pretty  steady  in  the  rainy  season.  We 
have  three  hundred  inches  in  the  year.  You  see, 
it's  the  shape  of  the  bay.  It  seems  to  attract  the 
rain  from  all  over  the  Pacific." 

"Damn  the  shape  of  the  bay,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  scratched  his  mosquito  bites.  He  felt  very 
short-tempered.  When  the  rain  stopped  and  the 
sun  shone,  it  was  like  a  hothouse,  seething,  humid, 
sultry,  breathless,  and  you  had  a  strange  feeling 
that  everything  was  growing  with  a  savage  violence. 
The  natives,  blithe  and  childlike  by  reputation, 
seemed  then,  with  their  tattooing  and  their  dyed 
hair,  to  have  something  sinister  in  their  appear- 
ance; and  when  they  pattered  along  at  your  heels 
with  their  naked  feet  you  looked  back  instinctively. 
You  felt  they  might  at  any  moment  come  behind 
you  swiftly  and  thrust  a  long  knife  between  your 
shoulder  blades.  You  could  not  tell  what  dark 
thoughts  lurked  behind  their  wide-set  eyes.  They 
had  a  little  the  look  of  ancient  Egyptians  painted 
on  a  temple  wall,  and  there  was  about  them  the 
terror  of  what  is  immeasurably  old. 

The  missionary  came  and  went.     He  was  busy* 


RAIN  277 

but  the  Macphails  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
Horn  told  the  doctor  that  he  saw  the  governor 
every  day,  and  once  Davidson  mentioned  him. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  had  plenty  of  determination," 
he  said,  "but  when  you  come  down  to  brass  tacks 
he  has  no  backbone." 

"I  suppose  that  means  he  won't  do  exactly  what 
you  want,"  suggested  .the  doctor  facetiously. 

The  missionary  did  not  smile. 

"I  want  him  to  do  what's  right.  It  shouldn't  be 
necessary  to  persuade  a  man  to  do  that." 

"But  there  may  be  differences  of  opinion  about 
what  is  right." 

"If  a  man  had  a  gangrenous  foot  would  you  have 
patience  with  anyone  who  hesitated  to  amputate  it?" 

"Gangrene  is  a  matter  of  fact." 

"And  Evil?" 

What  Davidson  had  done  soon  appeared.  The 
four  of  them  had  just  finished  their  midday  meal, 
and  they  had  not  yet  separated  for  the  siesta  which 
the  heat  imposed  on  the  ladies  and  on  the  doctor. 
Davidson  had  little  patience  with  the  slothful  habit. 
The  door  was  suddenly  flung  open  and  Miss  Thomp- 
son came  in.  She  looked  round  the  room  and  then 
went  up  to  Davidson. 

"You  low-down  skunk,  what  have  you  been  saying 
about  me  to  the  governor?" 

She  was  spluttering  with  rage.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  Then  the  missionary  drew  forward 
a  chair. 

"Won't  you  be  seated,  Miss  Thompson?  I've 
been  hoping  to  have  another  talk  with  you." 


278  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"You  poor  low-life  bastard." 

She  burst  into  a  torrent  of  insult,  foul  and  in- 
solent. Davidson  kept  his  grave  eyes  on  her. 

"I'm  indifferent  to  the  abuse  you  think  fit  to  heap 
on  me,  Miss  Thompson,"  he  said,  "but  I  must  beg 
you  to  remember  that  ladies  are  present." 

Tears  by  now  were  struggling  with  her  anger. 
Her  face  was  red  and  swollen  as  though  she  were 
choking. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Dr  Macphail. 

"A  feller's  just  been  in  here  and  he  says  I  gotter 
beat  it  on  the  next  boat." 

Was  there  a  gleam  in  the  missionary's  eyes? 
His  face  remained  impassive. 

"You  could  hardly  expect  the  governor  to  let  you 
stay  here  under  the  circumstances." 

"You  done  it,"  she  shrieked.  "You  can't  kid  me. 
You  done  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  deceive  you.  I  urged  the  gov- 
ernor to  take  the  only  possible  step  consistent  with 
his  obligations." 

"Why  couldn't  you  leave  me  be?  I  wasn't  doin' 
you  no  harm." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  if  you  had  I  should  be  the 
last  man  to  resent  it." 

"Do  you  think  I  want  to  stay  on  in  this  poor 
imitation  of  a  burg?  I  don't  look  no  busher,  do  I  ?" 

"In  that  case  I  don't  see  what  cause  of  com- 
plaint you  have,"  he  answered. 

She  gave  an  inarticulate  cry  of  rage  and  flung 
out  of  the  room.  There  was  a  short  silence. 

"It's  a  relief  to  know  that  the  governor  has  acted 


RAIN  279> 

at  last,"  said  Davidson  finally.  "He's  a  weak  man 
and  he  shilly-shallied.  He  said  she  was  only  here 
for  a  fortnight  anyway,  and  if  she  went  on  to  Apia 
that  was  under  British  jurisdiction  and  had  nothing 
to  do  with  him." 

The  missionary  sprang  to  his  feet  and  strode 
across  the  room. 

"It's  terrible  the  way  the  men  who  are  in  au- 
thority seek  to  evade  their  responsibility.  They 
speak  as  though  evil  that  was  out  of  sight  ceased  to 
be  evil.  The  very  existence  of  that  woman  is  a 
scandal  and  it  does  not  help  matters  to  shift  it  to 
another  of  the  islands.  In  the  end  I  had  to  speak 
straight  from  the  shoulder." 

Davidson's  brow  lowered,  and  he  protruded  his 
firm  chin.  He  looked  fierce  and  determined. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Our  mission  is  not  entirely  without  influence  at 
Washington.  I  pointed  out  to  the  governor  that  it 
wouldn't  do  him  any  good  if  there  was  a  complaint 
about  the  way  he  managed  things  here." 

"When  has  she  got  to  go?"  asked  the  doctor, 
after  a  pause. 

"The  San  Francisco  boat  is  due  here  from  Syd- 
ney next  Tuesday.  She's  to  sail  on  that." 

That  was  in  five  days'  time.  It  was  next  day, 
when  he  was  coming  back  from  the  hospital  where 
for  want  of  something  better  to  do  Macphail  spent 
most  of  his  mornings,  that  the  half-caste  stopped 
him  as  he  was  going  upstairs. 

"Excuse  me,  Dr  Marnhail.  Miss  Thompson's  sick. 
Will  you  have  a  look  at  her.'' 


280  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Certainly." 

Horn  led  him  to  her  room.  She  was  sitting  in 
a  chair  idly,  neither  reading  nor  sewing,  staring  in 
front  of  her.  She  wore  her  white  dress  and  the 
large  hat  with  the  flowers  on  it.  Macphail  noticed 
that  her  skin  was  yellow  and  muddy  under  her  pow- 
der, and  her  eyes  were  heavy. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you're  not  well,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sick  really.  I  just  said  that,  because 
I  just  had  to  see  you.  I've  got  to  clear  on  a  boat 
that's  going  to  'Frisco." 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
suddenly  startled.  She  opened  and  clenched  her 
hands  spasmodically.  The  trader  stood  at  the  door, 
listening. 

"So  I  understand,"  said  the  doctor. 

She  gave  a  little  gulp. 

"I  guess  it  ain't  very  convenient  for  me  to  go  to 
'Frisco  just  now.  I  went  to  see  the  governor  yes- 
terday afternoon,  but  I  couldn't  get  to  him.  I  saw 
the  secretary,  and  he  told  me  I'd  got  to  take  that 
boat  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  I  just  had 
to  see  the  governor,  so  I  waited  outside  his  house 
this  morning,  and  when  he  come  out  I  spoke  to 
him.  He  didn't  want  to  speak  to  me,  I'll  say,  but 
I  wouldn't  let  him  shake  me  off,  and  at  last  he  said 
he  hadn't  no  objection  to  my  staying  here  till  the 
next  boat  to  Sydney  if  the  Rev.  Davidson  will  stand 
for  it." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  Dr  Macphail  anx- 
iously. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  can  do,"  he  said. 


RAIN  281 

"Well,  I  thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  mind  ask- 
ing him.  I  swear  to  God  I  won't  start  anything 
here  if  he'll  just  only  let  me  stay.  I  won't  go  out 
of  the  house  if  that'll  suit  him.  It's  no  more'n  a 
fortnight." 

"I'll  ask  him." 

"He  won't  stand  for  it,"  said  Horn.  "He'll  have 
you  out  on  Tuesday,  so  you  may  as  well  make  up 
your  mind  to  it." 

"Tell  him  I  can  get  work  in  Sydney,  straight  stuff, 
I  mean.  'Tain't  asking  very  much." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"And  come  and  tell  me  right  away,  will  you? 
I  can't  set  down  to  a  thing  till  I  get  the  dope  one 
way  or  the  other." 

It  was  not  an  errand  that  much  pleased  the  doc- 
tor, and,  characteristically  perhaps,  he  went  about 
it  indirectly.  He  told  his  wife  what  Miss  Thompson 
had  said  to  him  and  asked  her  to  speak  to  Mrs 
Davidson.  The  missionary's  attitude  seemed  rather 
arbitrary  and  it  could  do  no  harm  if  the  girl  were 
allowed  to  stay  in  Pago-Pago  another  fortnight. 
But  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  result  of  his  diplo- 
macy. The  missionary  came  to  him  straightway. 

"Mrs  Davidson  tells  me  that  Thompson  has  been 
speaking  to  you." 

Dr  Macphail,  thus  directly  tackled,  had  the  shy 
man's  resentment  at  being  forced  out  into  the  open. 
He  felt  his  temper  rising,  and  he  flushed. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  can  make  any  difference  if 
she  goes  to  Sydney  rather  than  to  San  Francisco, 


282  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

and  so  long  as  she  promises  to  behave  while  she's 
here  it's  dashed  hard  to  persecute  her." 

The  missionary  fixed  him  with  his  stern  eyes. 

"Why  is  she  unwilling  to  go  back  to  San  Fran- 
cisco?" 

"I  didn't  enquire,"  answered  the  doctor  with  some 
asperity.  "And  I  think  one  does  better  to  mind 
one's  own  business." 

Perhaps  it  was  not  a  very  tactful  answer. 

"The  governor  has  ordered  her  to  be  deported 
by  the  first  boat  that  leaves  the  island.  He's  only 
done  his  duty  and  I  will  not  interfere.  Her  presence 
is  a  peril  here." 

"I  think  you're  very  harsh  and  tyrannical." 

The  two  ladies  looked  up  at  the  doctor  with  some 
alarm,  but  they  need  not  have  feared  a  quarrel, 
for  the  missionary  smiled  gently. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry  you  should  think  that  of  me, 
Dr  Macphail.  Believe  me,  my  heart  bleeds  for  that 
unfortunate  woman,  but  I'm  only  trying  to  do  my 
duty." 

The  doctor  made  no  answer.  He  looked  out  of 
the  window  sullenly.  For  once  it  was  not  raining 
and  across  the  bay  you  saw  nestling  among  the  trees 
the  huts  of  a  native  village. 

"I  think  I'll  take  advantage  of  the  rain  stopping 
to  go  out,"  he  said. 

"Please  don't  bear  me  malice  because  I  can't  acs 
cede  to  your  wish,"  said  Davidson,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile.  "I  respect  you  very  much,  doctor,  and 
I  should  be  sorry  if  you  thought  ill  of  me." 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  have  a  sufficiently  good 


RAIN  283 

opinion  of  yourself  to  bear  mine  with  equanimity," 
he  retorted. 

"That's  one  on  me,"  chuckled  Davidson. 

When  Dr  Macphail,  vexed  with  himself  because 
he  had  been  uncivil  to  no  purpose,  went  downstairs, 
Miss  Thompson  was  waiting  for  him  with  her  door 
ajar. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "have  you  spoken  to  him?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sorry,  he  won't  do  anything,"  he  an- 
swered, not  looking  at  her  in  his  embarrassment. 

But  then  he  gave  her  a  quick  glance,  for  a  sob 
broke  from  her.  He  saw  that  her  face  was  white 
with  fear.  It  gave  him  a  shock  of  dismay.  And 
suddenly  he  had  an  idea. 

"But  don't  give  up  hope  yet.  I  think  it's  a  shame 
the  way  they're  treating  you  and  I'm  going  to  see 
the  governor  myself." 

"Now?" 

He  nodded.     Her  face  brightened. 

"Say,  that's  real  good  of  you.  I'm  sure  he'll  let 
me  stay  if  you  speak  for  me.  I  just  won't  do  a 
thing  I  didn't  ought  all  the  time  I'm  here." 

Dr  Macphail  hardly  knew  why  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  appeal  to  the  governor.  He  was  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  Miss  Thompson's  affairs,  but 
the  missionary  had  irritated  him,  and  with  him  tem- 
per was  a  smouldering  thing.  He  found  the  gov- 
ernor at  home.  He. was  a  large,  handsome  man, 
a  sailor,  with  a  grey  toothbrush  moustache ;  and  he 
wore  a  spotless  uniform  of  white  drill. 

"I've  come  to  see  you  about  a  woman  who's  lodg- 


284  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

ing  in  the  same  house  as  we  are,"  he  said.  "Her 
name's  Thompson." 

"I  guess  I've  heard  nearly  enough  about  her,  Dr 
Macphail,"  said  the  governor,  smiling.  "I've  given 
her  the  order  to  get  out  next  Tuesday  and  that's 
all  I  can  do." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  couldn't  stretch  a 
point  and  let  her  stay  here  till  the  boat  comes  in 
from  San  Francisco  so  that  she  can  go  to  Sydney. 
I  will  guarantee  her  good  behaviour." 

The  governor  continued  to  smile,  but  his  eyes  grew 
small  and  serious. 

"I'd  be  very  glad  to  oblige  you,  Dr  Macphail, 
but  I've  given  the  order  and  it  must  stand." 

The  doctor  put  the  case  as  reasonably  as  he  could, 
but  now  the  governor  ceased  to  smile  at  all.  He 
listened  sullenly,  with  averted  gaze.  Macphail  saw 
that  he  was  making  no  impression. 

"I'm  sorry  to  cause  any  lady  inconvenience,  but 
she'll  have  to  sail  on  Tuesday  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

"But  what  difference  can  it  make?" 

"Pardon  me,  doctor,  but  I  don't  feel  called  upon 
to  explain  my  official  actions  except  to  the  proper 
authorities." 

Macphail  looked  at  him  shrewdly.  He  remerru 
bered  Davidson's  hint  that  he  had  used  threats,  and 
in  the  governor's  attitude  he  read  a  singular  em- 
barrassment. 

"Davidson's  a  damned  busybody,"  he  said  hotly. 

"Between  ourselves,  Dr  Macphail,  I  don't  say 
that  I  have  formed  a  very  favourable  opinion  of 


RAIN  285 

Mr  Davidson,  but  I  am  bound  to  confess  rfiat  he 
was  within  his  rights  in  pointing  out  to  me  the  dan- 
ger that  the  presence  of  a  woman  of  Miss  Thomp- 
son's character  was  to  a  place  like  this  where  a 
number  of  enlisted  men  are  stationed  among  a  na- 
tive population." 

He  got  up  and  Dr  Macphail  was  obliged  to  do 
so  too. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me.  I  have  an  en- 
gagement. Please  give  my  respects  to  Mrs  Mac- 
phail." 

The  doctor  left  him  crest-fallen.  He  knew  that 
Miss  Thompson  would  be  waiting  for  him,  and  un- 
willing to  tell  her  himself  that  he  had  failed,  he 
went  into  the  house  by  the  back  door  and  sneaked 
up  the  stairs  as  though  he  had  something  to  hide. 

At  supper  he  was  silent  and  ill-at-ease,  but  the 
missionary  was  jovial  and  animated.  Dr  Macphail 
thought  his  eyes  rested  on  him  now  and  then  with 
triumphant  good-humour.  It  struck  him  suddenly 
that  Davidson  knew  of  his  visit  to  the  governor 
and  of  its  ill  success.  But  how  on  earth  could  he 
have  heard  of  it?  There  was  something  sinister 
about  the  power  of  that  man.  After  supper  he  saw 
Horn  on  the  verandah  and,  as  though  to  have  a 
casual  word  with  him,  went  out. 

"She  wants  to  know  if  you've  seen  the  governor," 
the  trader  whispered. 

"Yes.  He  wouldn't  do  anything.  I'm  awfully 
sorry,  I  can't  do  anything  more." 

"I  knew  he  wouldn't.  They  daren't  go  against 
the  missionaries." 


286  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Davidson 
affably,  coming  out  to  join  them. 

"I  was  just  saying  there  was  no  chance  of  your 
getting  over  to  Apia  for  at  least  another  week," 
said  the  trader  glibly. 

He  left  them,  and  the  two  men  returned  into 
the  parlour.  Mr  Davidson  devoted  one  hour  after 
each  meal  to  recreation.  Presently  a  timid  knock 
was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs  Davidson,  in  her  sharp 
voice. 

The  door  was  not  opened.  She  got  up  and  opened 
it.  They  saw  Miss  Thompson  standing  at  the 
threshold.  But  the  change  in  her  appearance  was 
extraordinary.  This  was  no  longer  the  flaunting 
hussy  who  had  jeered  at  them  in  the  road,  but  a 
broken,  frightened  woman.  Her  hair,  as  a  rule  so 
elaborately  arranged,  was  tumbling  untidily  over  her 
neck.  She  wore  bedroom  slippers  and  a  skirt  and 
blouse.  They  were  unfresh  and  bedraggled.  She 
stood  at  the  door  with  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  face  and  did  not  dare  to  enter. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Mrs  Davidson 
harshly. 

"May  I  speak  to  Mr  Davidson?"  she  said  in 
a  choking  voice. 

The  missionary  rose  and  went  towards  her. 

"Come  right  in,  Miss  Thompson,"  he  said  in 
cordial  tones.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

She  entered  the  room. 

"Say,  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said  to  you  the  other 


RAIN  287 

day  an'  for — for  everythin'  else.  I  guess  I  was  a 
bit  lit  up.  I  beg  pardon." 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing.  I  guess  my  back's  broad 
enough  to  bear  a  few  hard  words." 

She  stepped  towards  him  with  a  movement  that 
was  horribly  Dinging. 

"You've  got  me  beat.  I'm  all  in.  You  won't 
make  me  go  back  to  'Frisco?" 

His  genial  manner  vanished  and  his  voice  grew 
on  a  sudden  hard  and  stern. 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  go  back  there?" 

She  cowered  before  him. 

"I  guess  my  people  live  there.  I  don't  want  them 
to  see  me  like  this.  I'll  go  anywhere  else  you  say." 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  go  back  to  San  Fran- 
cisco?" 

"I've  told  you." 

He  leaned  forward,  staring  at  her,  and  his  great, 
shining  eyes  seemed  to  try  to  bore  into  her  soul. 
He  gave  a  sudden  gasp. 

"The  penitentiary." 

She  screamed,  and  then  she  fell  at  his  feet,  clasp- 
ing his  legs. 

"Don't  send  me  back  there.  I  swear  to  you  be- 
fore God  I'll  be  a  good  woman.  I'll  give  all 
this  up." 

She  burst  into  a  torrent  of  confused  supplica- 
tion and  the  tears  coursed  down  her  painted  cheeks. 
He  leaned  over  her  and,  lifting  her  face,  forced 
her  to  look  at  him. 

"Is  that  it,  the  penitentiary?" 

"I  beat  it  before  they  could  get  me,"  she  gasped. 


288  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"If  the  bulls  grab  me  it's  three  years  for  mine/* 

He  let  go  his  hold  of  her  and  she  fell  in  a  heap 
on  the  floor,  sobbing  bitterly.  Dr  Macphail 
stood  up. 

"This  alters  the  whole  thing,"  he  said.  "You 
can't  make  her  go  back  when  you  know  this.  Give 
her  another  chance.  She  wants  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf." 

"I'm  going  to  give  her  the  finest  chance  she's  ever 
had.  If  she  repents  let  her  accept  her  punishment." 

She  misunderstood  the  words  and  looked  up. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  heavy  eyes. 

"You'll  let  me  go?" 

"No.  You  shall  sail  for  San  Francisco  on  Tues- 
day." 

She  gave  a  groan  of  horror  and  then  burst  intc 
low,  hoarse  shrieks  which  sounded  hardly  human, 
and  she  beat  her  head  passionately  on  the  ground. 
Dr  Macphail  sprang  to  her  and  lifted  her  up. 

"Come  on,  you  mustn't  do  that.  You'd  better 
go  to  your  room  and  lie  down.  I'll  get  you  some- 
thing." 

He  raised  her  to  her  feet  and  partly  dragging 
her,  partly  carrying  her,  got  her  downstairs.  He 
was  furious  with  Mrs  Davidson  and  with  his  wife 
because  they  made  no  effort  to  help.  The  half-caste 
was  standing  on  the  landing  and  with  his  assistance 
he  managed  to  get  her  on  the  bed.  She  was  moan- 
ing and  crying.  She  was  almost  insensible.  He 
gave  her  a  hypodermic  injection.  He  was  hot  and 
exhausted  when  he  went  upstairs  again. 

"I've  got  her  to  lie  down." 


RAIN  289 

The  two  women  and  Davidson  were  in  the  same 
positions  as  when  he  had  left  them.  They  could 
not  have  moved  or  spoken  since  he  went. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  said  Davidson,  in  a 
strange,  distant  voice.  "I  want  you  all  to  pray 
with  me  for  the  soul  of  our  erring  sister." 

He  took  the  Bible  off  a  shelf,  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  at  which  they  had  supped.  It  had  not  been 
cleared,  and  he  pushed  the  tea-pot  out  of  the  way. 
In  a  powerful  voice,  resonant  and  deep,  he  read 
to  them  the  chapter  in  which  is  narrated  the  meeting 
of  Jesus  Christ  with  the  woman  taken  in  adultery, 
then  she  looked  away.  She  kept  her  eyes  averted 
knees. 

"Now  kneel  with  me  and  let  us  pray  for  the  soul 
of  our  dear  sister,  Sadie  Thompson." 

He  burst  into  a  long,  passionate  prayer  in  which 
he  implored  God  to  have  mercy  on  the  sinful  woman. 
Mrs  Macphail  and  Mrs  Davidson  knelt  with  cov- 
ered eyes.  The  doctor,  taken  by  surprise,  awk- 
ward and  sheepish,  knelt  too.  The  missionary's 
prayer  had  a  savage  eloquence.  He  was  extraordi- 
narily moved,  and  as  he  spoke  the  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks.  Outside,  the  pitiless  rain  fell,  fell  stead- 
ily, with  a  fierce  malignity  that  was  all  too  human. 

At  last  he  stopped.  He  paused  for  a  moment  and 
said: 

"We  will  now  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer." 

They  said  it  and  then,  following  him,  they  rose 
from  their  knees.  Mrs  Davidson's  face  was  pale 
and  restful.  She  was  comforted  and  at  peace,  but 


290  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

the  Macphails  felt  suddenly  bashful.  They  did  not 
know  which  way  to  look. 

"I'll  just  go  down  and  see  how  she  is  now,"  said 
Dr  Macphail. 

When  he  knocked  at  her  door  it  was  opened  for 
him  by  Horn.  Miss  Thompson  was  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  sobbing  quietly. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  exclaimed  Mac- 
phail. "I  told  you  to  lie  down." 

"I  can't  lie  down.    I  want  to  see  Mr  Davidson." 

"My  poor  child,  what  do  you  think  is  the  good 
of  it?  You'll  never  move  him." 

"He  said  he'd  come  if  I  sent  for  him." 

Macphail  motioned  to  the  trader. 

"Go  and  fetch  him." 

He  waited  with  her  in  silence  while  the  trader 
went  upstairs.  Davidson  came  in. 

"Excuse  me  for  asking  you  to  come  here,"  she 
said,  looking  at  him  sombrely. 

"I  was  expecting  you  to  send  for  me.  I  knew 
the  Lord  would  answer  my  prayer." 

They  stared  at  one  another  for  a  moment  and 
then  she  looked  away.  She  kept  her  eyes  averted 
when  she  spoke. 

"I've  been  a  bad  woman.    I  want  to  repent." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!  He  has  heard  our 
prayers." 

He  turned  to  the  two  men. 

"Leave  me  alone  with  her.  Tell  Mrs  Davidson 
that  our  prayers  have  been  answered." 

They  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

"Gee  whizz,"  said  the  trader. 


RAIN  291 

That  night  Dr  Macphail  could  not  get  to  sleep 
till  late,  and  when  he  heard  the  missionary  come 
upstairs  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  two  o'clock. 
But  even  then  he  did  not  go  to  bed  at  once,  for 
through  the  wooden  partition  that  separated  their 
rooms  he  heard  him  praying  aloud,  till  he  himself, 
exhausted,  fell  asleep. 

When  he  saw  him  next  morning  he  was  surprised 
at  his  appearance.  He  was  paler  than  ever,  tired, 
but  his  eyes  shone  with  an  inhuman  fire.  It  looked 
as  though  he  were  filled  with  an  overwhelming  joy. 

"I  want  you  to  go  down  presently  and  see  Sadie," 
he  said.  "I  can't  hope  that  her  body  is  better,  but 
her  soul — her  soul  is  transformed." 

The  doctor  was  feeling  wan  and  nervous. 

"You  were  with  her  very  late  last  night,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  she  couldn't  bear  to  have  me  leave  her." 

"You  look  as  pleased  as  Punch,"  the  doctor  said 
irritably. 

Davidson's  eyes  shone  with  ecstasy. 

"A  great  mercy  has  been  vouchsafed  me.  Last 
night  I  was  privileged  to  bring  a  lost  soul  to  the 
loving  arms  of  Jesus." 

Miss  Thompson  was  again  in  the  rocking-chair. 
The  bed  had  not  been  made.  The  room  was  in  dis- 
order. She  had  not  troubled  to  dress  herself,  but 
wore  a  dirty  dressing-gown,  and  her  hair  was  tied 
in  a  sluttish  knot.  She  had  given  her  face  a  dab 
with  a  wet  towel,  but  it  was  all  swollen  and  creased 
with  crying.  She  looked  a  drab. 

She  raised  her  eyes  dully  when  the  doctor  came 
in.  She  was  cowed  and  broken. 


292  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"Where's  Mr  Davidson?"  she  asked. 

"He'll  come  presently  if  you  want  him,"  an- 
swered Macphail  acidly.  "I  came  here  to  see  how 
you  were." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'm  O.  K.  You  needn't  worry  about 
that." 

"Have  you  had  anything  to  eat?" 

"Horn  brought  me  some  coffee." 

She  looked  anxiously  at  the  door. 

"D'you  think  he'll  come  down  soon?  I  feel  as 
if  it  wasn't  so  terrible  when  he's  with  me." 

"Are  you  still  going  on  Tuesday?" 

"Yes,  he  says  I've  got  to  go.  Please  tell  him  to 
come  right  along.  You  can't  do  me  any  good.  He's 
the  only  one  as  can  help  me  now." 

"Very  well,"  said  Dr  Macphail. 

During  the  next  three  days  the  missionary  spent 
almost  all  his  time  with  Sadie  Thompson.  He  joined 
the  others  only  to  have  his  meals.  Dr  Macphail 
noticed  that  he  hardly  ate. 

"He's  wearing  himself  out,"  said  Mrs  Davidson 
pitifully.  "He'll  have  a  breakdown  if  he  doesn't 
take  care,  but  he  won't  spare  himself." 

She  herself  was  white  and  pale.  She  told  Mrs 
Macphail  that  she  had  no  sleep.  When  the  mis- 
sionary came  upstairs  from  Miss  Thompson  he 
prayed  till  he  was  exhausted,  but  even  then  he  did 
not  sleep  for  long.  After  an  hour  or  two  he  got 
up  and  dressed  himself,  and  went  for  a  tramp  along 
the  bay.  He  had  strange  dreams. 

"This  morning  he  told  me  that  he'd  been  dream- 


RAIN  293 

ing  about  the  mountains  of  Nebraska,"  said  Mrs 
Davidson. 

"That's  curious,"  said  Dr  Macphail. 

He  remembered  seeing  them  from  the  windows 
of  the  train  when  he  crossed  America.  They  were 
like  huge  mole-hills,  rounded  and  smooth,  and  they 
rose  from  the  plain  abruptly.  Dr  Macphail  remem- 
bered how  it  struck  him  that  they  were  like  a 
woman's  breasts. 

Davidson's  restlessness  was  intolerable  even  to 
himself.  But  he  was  buoyed  up  by  a  wonderful 
exhilaration.  He  was  tearing  out  by  the  roots  the 
last  vestiges  of  sin  that  lurked  in  the  hidden  cor- 
ners of  that  poor  woman's  heart.  He  read  with 
her  and  prayed  with  her. 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  said  to  them  one  day  at  sup- 
per. "It's  a  true  rebirth.  Her  soul,  which  was 
black  as  night,  is  now  pure  and  white  like  the  new- 
fallen  snow.  I  am  humble  and  afraid.  Her  re- 
morse for  all  her  sins  is  beautiful.  I  am  not  worthy 
to  touch  the  hem  of  her  garment." 

"Have  you  the  heart  to  send  her  back  to  San 
Francisco?"  said  the  doctor.  "Three  years  in  an 
American  prison.  I  should  have  thought  you  might 
have  saved  her  from  that." 

"Ah,  but  don't  you  see?  It's  necessary.  Do  you 
think  my  heart  doesn't  bleed  for  her?  I  love  her 
as  I  love  my  wife  and  my  sister.  All  the  time  that 
she  is  in  prison  I  shall  suffer  all  the  pain  that  she 
suffers." 

"Bunkum,"  cried  the  doctor  impatiently. 

"You    don't    understand    because    you're    blind 


294  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

She's  sinned,  and  she  must  suffer.  I  know  what 
she'll  endure.  She'll  be  starved  and  tortured  and 
humiliated.  I  want  her  to  accept  the  punishment 
of  man  as  a  sacrifice  to  God.  I  want  her  to  accept 
it  joyfully.  She  has  an  opportunity  which  is  of- 
fered to  very  few  of  us.  God  is  very  good  and 
very  merciful." 

Davidson's  voice  trembled  with  excitement.  He 
could  hardly  articulate  the  words  that  tumbled  pas- 
sionately from  his  lips. 

"All  day  I  pray  with  her  and  when  I  leave  her 
I  pray  again,  I  pray  with  all  my  might  and  main, 
so  that  Jesus  may  grant  her  this  great  mercy.  I 
want  to  put  in  her  heart  the  passionate  desire  to 
be  punished  so  that  at  the  end,  even  if  I  offered 
to  let  her  go,  she  would  refuse.  I  want  her  to  feel 
that  the  bitter  punishment  of  prison  is  the  thank- 
offering  that  she  places  at  the  feet  of  our  Blessed 
Lord,  who  gave  his  life  for  her." 

The  days  passed  slowly.  The  whole  household, 
intent  on  the  wretched,  tortured  woman  down- 
stairs,  lived  in  a  state  of  unnatural  excitement.  She 
was  like  a  victim  that  was  being  prepared  for  the 
savage  rites  of  a  bloody  idolatry.  Her  terror 
numbed  her.  She  could  not  bear  to  let  Davidson 
out  of  her  sight;  it  was  only  when  he  was  with  her 
that  she  had  courage,  and  she  hung  upon  him  with 
a  slavish  dependence.  She  cried  a  great  deal,  and 
she  read  the  Bible,  and  prayed.  Sometimes  she  was 
exhausted  and  apathetic.  Then  she  did  indeed  look 
forward  to  her  ordeal,  for  it  seemed  to  offer  an 
escape,  direct  and  concrete,  from  the  anguish  she 


RAIN  295 

was  enduring.  She  could  not  bear  much  longer  the 
vague  terrors  which  now  assailed  her.  With  her 
sins  she  had  put  aside  all  personal  vanity,  and  she 
slopped  about  her  room,  unkempt  and  dishevelled, 
in  her  tawdry  dressing-gown.  She  had  not  taken 
off  her  night-dress  for  four  days,  nor  put  on  stock- 
ings. Her  room  was  littered  and  untidy.  Mean- 
while the  rain  fell  with  a  cruel  persistence.  You 
felt  that  the  heavens  must  at  last  be  empty  of  water, 
but  still  it  poured  down,  straight  and  heavy,  with 
a  maddening  iteration,  on  the  iron  roof.  Every- 
thing was  damp  and  clammy.  There  was  mildew 
on  the  walls  and  on  the  boots  that  stood  on  the 
floor.  Through  the  sleepless  nights  the  mosquitoes 
droned  their  angry  chant. 

"If  it  would  only  stop  raining  for  a  single  day  it 
wouldn't  be  so  bad,"  said  Dr  Macphail. 

They  all  looked  forward  to  the  Tuesday  when  the 
boat  for  San  Francisco  was  to  arrive  from  Syd- 
ney. The  strain  was  intolerable.  So  far  as  Dr 
Macphail  was  concerned,  his  pity  and  his  resent- 
ment were  alike  extinguished  by  his  desire  to  be  rid 
of  the  unfortunate  woman.  The  inevitable  must 
be  accepted.  He  felt  he  would  breathe  more  freely 
when  the  ship  had  sailed.  Sadie  Thompson  was  to 
be  escorted  on  board  by  a  clerk  in  the  governor's 
office.  This  person  called  on  the  Monday  evening 
and  told  Miss  Thompson  to  be  prepared  at  eleven  in 
the  morning.  Davidson  was  with  her. 

"I'll  see  that  everything  is  ready.  I  mean  to 
come  on  board  with  her  myself." 

Miss  Thompson  did  not  speak. 


296  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

When  Dr  Maqphail  blew  out  his  candle  and 
crawled  cautiously  under  his  mosquito  curtains,  he 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Well,  thank  God  that's  over.  By  this  time  to- 
morrow she'll  be  gone." 

"Mrs  Davidson  will  be  glad  too.  She  says  he's 
wearing  himself  to  a  shadow,"  said  Mrs  Macphail. 
"She's  a  different  woman." 

"Who?" 

"Sadie.  I  should  never  have  thought  it  pos- 
sible. It  makes  one  humble." 

Dr  Macphail  did  not  answer,  and  presently  he 
fell  asleep.  He  was  tired  out,  and  he  slept  more 
soundly  than  usual. 

He  was  awakened  in  the  morning  by  a  hand 
placed  on  his  arm,  and,  starting  up,  saw  Horn  by 
the  side  of  his  bed.  The  trader  put  his  finger  on 
his  mouth  to  prevent  any  exclamation  from  Dr  Mac- 
phail and  beckoned  to  him  to  come.  As  a  rule  he 
wore  shabby  ducks,  but  now  he  was  barefoot  and 
wore  only  the  lava-lava  of  the  natives.  He  looked 
suddenly  savage,  and  Dr  Macphail,  getting  out  of 
bed,  saw  that  he  was  heavily  tattooed.  Horn  made 
him  a  sign  to  come  on  to  the  verandah.  Dr  Mac- 
phail got  out  of  bed  and  followed  the  trader  out. 

"Don't  make  a  noise,"  he  whispered.  "You're 
wanted.  Put  on  a  coat  and  some  shoes.  Quick." 

Dr  Macphail's  first  thought  was  that  something 
had  happened  to  Miss  Thompson. 

"What  is  it?    Shall  I  bring  my  instruments?" 

"Hurry,  please,  hurry." 

Dr  Macphail  crept  back  into  the  bedroom,  put  on 


RAIN  £97 

a  waterproof  over  his  pyjamas,  and  a  pair  of  rubber- 
soled  shoes.  He  rejoined  the  trader,  and  together 
they  tiptoed  down  the  stairs.  The  door  leading 
out  to  the  road  was  open  and  at  it  were  standing 
half  a  dozen  natives. 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  the  doctor. 

"Come  along  with  me,"  said  Horn. 

He  walked  out  and  the  doctor  followed  him. 
The  natives  came  after  them  in  a  little  bunch.  They 
crossed  the  road  and  came  on  to  the  beach.  The 
doctor  saw  a  group  of  natives  standing  round  some 
object  at  the  water's  edge.  They  hurried  along,  a 
couple  of  dozen  yards  perhaps,  and  the  natives 
opened  out  as  the  doctor  came  up.  The  trader 
pushed  him  forwards.  Then  he  saw,  lying  half  in 
the  water  and  half  out,  a  dreadful  object,  the  body 
of  Davidson.  Dr  Macphail  bent  down — he  was  not 
a  man  to  lose  his  head  in  an  emergency — and  turned 
the  body  over.  The  throat  was  cut  from  ear  to 
ear,  and  in  the  right  hand  was  still  the  razor  with 
which  the  deed  was  done. 

"He's  quite  cold,"  said  the  doctor.  "He  must 
have  been  dead  some  time." 

"One  of  the  boys  saw  him  lying  there  on  his  way 
to  work  just  now  and  came  and  told  me.  Do  you 
think  he  did  it  himself?" 

"Yes.    Someone  ought  to  go  for  the  police." 

Horn  said  something  in  the  native  tongue,  and 
two  youths  started  off. 

"We  must  leave  him  here  till  they  come,"  said 
the  doctor. 


898  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

"They  mustn't  take  him  into  my  house.  I  won't 
have  him  in  my  house." 

"You'll  do  what  the  authorities  say,"  replied  the 
doctor  sharply.  "In  point  of  fact  I  expect  they'll 
take  him  to  the  mortuary." 

They  stood  waiting  where  they  were.  The  trader 
took  a  cigarette  from  a  fold  in  his  lava-lava  and 
gave  one  to  Dr  Macphail.  They  smoked  while 
they  stared  at  the  corpse.  Dr  Macphail  could  not 
understand. 

"Why  do  you  think  he  did  it?"  asked  Horn. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  In  a  little 
while  native  police  came  along,  under  the  charge  of 
a  marine,  with  a  stretcher,  and  immediately  after- 
wards a  couple  of  naval  officers  and  a  naval  doc- 
tor. They  managed  everything  in  a  businesslike 
manner. 

"What  about  the  wife?"  said  one  of  the  officers. 

"Now  that  you've  come  I'll  go  back  to  the  house 
and  get  some  things  on.  I'll  see  that  it's  broken 
to  her.  She'd  better  not  see  him  till  he's  been  fixed 
up  a  little." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  said  the  naval  doctor. 

When  Dr  Macphail  went  back  he  found  his  wife 
nearly  dressed. 

"Mrs  Davidson's  in  a  dreadful  state  about  her 
husband,"  she  said  to  him  as  soon  as  he  appeared. 
"He  hasn't  been  to  bed  all  night.  She  heard  him 
leave  Miss  Thompson's  room  at  two,  but  he  went 
out.  If  he's  been  walking  about  since  then  he'll 
be  absolutely  dead." 


RAIN  £99 

Dr  Macphail  told  her  what  had  happened  and 
asked  her  to  break  the  news  to  Mrs  Davidson. 

"Bui  why  did  he  do  it?"  she  asked,  horror- 
stricken. 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  I  can't.     I  can't." 

"You  must." 

She  gave  him  a  frightened  look  and  went  out. 
He  heard  her  go  into  Mrs  Davidson's  room.  He 
waited  a  minute  to  gather  himself  together  and 
then  began  to  shave  and  wash.  When  he  was  dressed 
he  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  waited  for  his  wife. 
At  last  she  came. 

"She  wants  to  see  him,"  she  said. 

"They've  taken  him  to  the  mortuary.  We'd  bet- 
ter go  down  with  her.  How  did  she  take  it?" 

"I  think  she's  stunned.  She  didn't  cry.  But  she's 
trembling  like  a  leaf." 

"We'd  better  go  at  once." 

When  they  knocked  at  her  door  Mrs  Davidson 
came  out.  She  was  very  pale,  but  dry-eyed.  To 
the  doctor  she  seemed  unnaturally  composed.  No 
word  was  exchanged,  and  they  set  out  in  silence  down 
the  road.  When  they  arrived  at  the  mortuary  Mrs 
Davidson  spoke. 

"Let  me  go  in  and  see  him  alone." 

They  stood  aside.  A  native  opened  a  door  for 
her  and  closed  it  behind  her.  They  sat  down  and 
waited.  One  or  two  white  men  came  and  talked  to 
them  in  undertones.  Dr  Macphail  told  them  again 
what  he  knew  of  the  tragedy.  At  last  the  door  was 


SOO  THE  TREMBLING  OF  A  LEAF 

quietly  opened  and  Mrs  Davidson  came  out.     Si- 
lence fell  upon  them. 

"I'm  ready  to  go  back  now,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  hard  and  steady.  Dr  Macphail 
could  not  understand  the  look  in  her  eyes.  Her  pale 
face  was  very  stern.  They  walked  back  slowly, 
never  saying  a  word,  and  at  last  they  came  round  the 
bend  on  the  other  side  of  which  stood  their  house. 
Mrs  Davidson  gave  a  gasp,  and  for  a  moment  they 
stopped  still.  An  incredible  sound  assaulted  their 
ears.  The  gramophone  which  had  been  silent  for 
so  long  was  playing,  playing  ragtime  loud  and  harsh. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Mrs  Macphail  with  horror. 

"Let's  go  on,"  said  Mrs  Davidson. 

They  walked  up  the  steps  and  entered  the  hall. 
Miss  Thompson  was  standing  at  her  door,  chatting 
with  a  sailor.  A  sudden  change  had  taken  place 
in  her.  She  was  no  longer  the  cowed  drudge  of 
the  last  days.  She  was  dressed  in  all  her  finery, 
in  her  white  dress,  with  the  high  shiny  boots  over 
which  her  fat  legs  bulged  in  their  cotton  stockings; 
her  hair  was  elaborately  arranged;  and  she  wore 
that  enormous  hat  covered  with  gaudy  flowers.  Her 
face  was  painted,  her  eyebrows  were  boldly  black, 
and  her  lips  were  scarlet.  She  held  herself  erect. 
She  was  the  flaunting  quean  that  they  had  known 
at  first.  As  they  came  in  she  broke  into  a  loud, 
jeering  laugh;  and  then,  when  Mrs  Davidson  in-, 
voluntarily  stopped,  she  collected  the  spittle  in  her 
mouth  and  spat.  Mrs  Davidson  cowered  back,  and 
two  red  spots  rose  suddenly  to  her  cheeks.  Then, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  broke  away 


RAIN  301 

and  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs.  Dr  Macphail  was 
outraged.  He  pushed  past  the  woman  into  her 
room. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing?"  he  cried.  "Stop 
that  damned  machine." 

He  went  up  to  it  and  tore  the  record  off.  She 
turned  on  him. 

"Say,  doc,  you  can  that  stuff  with  me.  What 
the  hell  are  you  doin'  in  my  room?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried.  "What  d'you 
mean?" 

She  gathered  herself  together.  No  one  could  de- 
scribe the  scorn  of  her  expression  or  the  contemptu- 
ous hatred  she  put  into  her  answer. 

"You  men!  You  filthy,  dirty  pigs!  You're  all 
the  same,  all  of  you.  Pigs!  Pigs!" 

Dr  Macphail  gasped.    He  understood. 


VIII 

Envoi 

WHEN  your  ship  leaves  Honolulu  they  hang 
lets  round  your  neck,  garlands  of  sweet 
smelling  flowers.  The  wharf  is  crowded  and  the 
band  plays  a  melting  Hawaiian  tune.  The  people 
on  board  throw  coloured  streamers  to  those  stand- 
ing below,  and  the  side  of  the  ship  is  gay  with  the 
thin  lines  of  paper,  red  and  green  and  yellow  and 
blue.  When  the  ship  moves  slowly  away  the  stream- 
ers break  softly,  and  it  is  like  the  breaking  of  human 
ties.  Men  and  women  are  joined  together  for  a 
moment  by  a  gaily  coloured  strip  of  paper,  red  and 
blue  and  green  and  yellow,  and  then  life  separates 
them  and  the  paper  is  sundered,  so  easily,  with  a 
little  sharp  snap.  For  an  hour  the  fragments  trail 
down  the  hull  and  then  they  blow  away.  The  flow- 
ers of  your  garlands  fade  and  their  scent  is  oppres- 
sive. You  throw  them  overboard. 


THE  END 


303 


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more,  probably,  by  the  author  of  this 
one;  more  than  500  titles  all  told  by 
writers  of  worldwide  reputation,  in 
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you  will  find  on  the  reverse  side  of  the 
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before  you  lay  it  aside.  There  are 
books  here  you  are  sure  to  want — some, 
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ROB  EDEN 

VIDA  HURST 

Pay  Check 
Heartbreak  Girl 
Second  Choice 
Loot 
Dancing  Feet 
$20  a  Week 
The  Girl  with  Red  Hair 
BEATRICE  BURTON 

No  Such  Girl 
Glittering  Sham 
Honeymoon  Limited 
One  Man  Woman 
Blind  Date 
Marriage  a  la  Mode 
Big  Game 
MAY  CHRISTIE 

Mary  Faith 
Lovejoy 
Easy 
Money  Love 
The  Flapper  Wife 
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Playgirls  in  Love 
The  High  Speed  Girl 
Flirting  Wives 
A  Kiss  For  Corinna 
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Flighty 
High  Hat 
Dimpled  Racketeer 
Make-Up 
EDNA  ROBB  WEBSTER 

Chickie 
Chickie,  A  Sequel 
Sandy 
Nora  Lee 
Jerry 
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Joretta 
Lipstick  Girl 
Love,  Preferred 
ANNE  GARDNER 

The  Husband  Hunter 
Heartache 
When  a  Girl  Loves 
LAURA  LOU   BROOKMAN 

Masquerade 
Working  Wives 
ROBERT  D.  ANDREWS 

Leap  Year  Bride 
Guilty  Lips 
VERNIE  E.  CONNELLY 

Three  Girls  Lost 
One  Girl  Found 
MABEL  McELLIOTT 

Runaway  Wife 
Alimony  Queens 
CLARE  SHARPE  HOUGH 

Love  Feud 
The  Man  Hunters 
HAZEL  ROSS  HAILEY 

The  Charming  Cheat 
JOAN  CLAYTON 

Lure 
CLAIRE  POMEROY 

One  Girl's  Morals 
ELEANOR  EARLY 

Golden  Youth 

Love's  Denial 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


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